Dreams of Red
by Ciel du Nord
Summary: Issei dreams. He wishes he didn't. Somehow, the whole world's axis shifts. He has to find his place in all of this and maybe leads a revolution while he is at it.
1. Bleak reality

Issei dreams.

When morning comes (and it always, always comes), he peers into the not quite twilight of his unfurnished bedroom and remembers who he is. Even when he closes his eyes to catch a wisp of blurred visions and red hair, the scent that clings to his skin, to the sheets of his bed, reminds him of reality. No peach or pear for him. Only mold and sadness wrapped in sweat.

The young teen slowly breathes in, teeth bared against his pillow in a poor attempt to muffle any sounds he might make. His bed is smelly. Gotta change the sheets. Adolescence and suddenly sweating like a Popsicle in a sauna suck. He doesn't even get thinner and his ugly mug looks more and more like a pizza.

Issei wills away the bad thoughts and the urge to stay put with a groan. He wiggles on his sheets. Going back to sleep will do nothing good. He has to get out of bed.

He sits and takes a moment to rub his cranky muscles and aching bones. He hopes they're not growing pains (they are. His body likes to spit him). The clothes haphazardly thrown around his bed are glaring at him. Perfectly good clothes he will have to give away in a few weeks. Or mend to last longer. He could ask his mom to teach him how to sew during her good episodes.

One more housewife's skill added to his ever-growing list of manly teen's charms. Yay.

He leaves his room before the urge to roll over and play dead becomes too strong to handle.

The parquet creaks familiarly under his feet. Issei absently avoids the louder spots. They were his favorite once. When he was young, he thought the floor was talking, each lath whispering a different story. He thought he only had to learn their language to understand their creaks and rumbles. He had passed many rainy hours with his ear against the floor, listening, imagining wonderful adventures and mouthing his own secrets against cold wood.

Now, he just hopes he is not making too much noise as he haunts the hallway.

The bathroom is small, humid and starting to smell like death. The mirror that so kindly reflects his face is decorated with toothpaste stains. Issei checks his mental list: one more room to clean. His mother hates it when it's dirty. The doctors would also have frowned and berated him if they could've seen the room. A sick person shouldn't even approach a room that looks like the kingdom of germs. Issei's reflection smiles somberly.

Good thing they no longer come.

He scrubs his face in front of the mirror until his skin is raw and breaking apart. Like his mind.

His dreams are unrealistic. Stupid. Filthy. He hits his face a few times, as if they would magically leave him be at night. Issei is neither a pervert nor a part-time hero. He has no time for that. Reality is where he is. Reality is more fucked up than his dreams.

"My name is Hyoudou Issei. I'm thirteen years old." He stops there, because there's nothing else to say. 'I won an athletic competition once' does sound kind of arrogant to add to a self-introduction. It wasn't a very big competition either. The other things he could add aren't nice.

"I'm human." He mutters. The truth strangely stings his tongue. The mirror reflects his image. He snorts. Yep, he couldn't look more like a stumbling, stuttering guy with a _chuuni_ problem.

Issei rinses his face. A wisp of a tiny girl with blonde hair and _wings on fire_ blinks in the mirror.

He flees the bathroom.

He navigates between the beams of sunlight that trickles from the windows. The light looks too fiery for him.

The boy knocks on his mother's door and waits for the rustle of sheets that tells him she has heard him and tried to get up. As always, she tries too hard. He opens her door and smiles brightly.

"Good morning, Mom." It isn't so good. Her face is pale and listless.

After a few moments, she smiles softly and finally acknowledges his existence. "Ise."

"Yes. It's me. Issei." He acknowledges himself softly. He is never the person she wants to see most. It must be a good thing that she hasn't taken him for that guy this morning. It has to be an improvement. She's not completely in her own wonderland where everything is perfect and normal and nobody is sick.

"Where is your father?"

Ah. His smile falters against his own will. His cheeks ache and suddenly, Issei doesn't see the point in playing the part of the good son. "He left."

The words are cruelly true. Issei regrets them the instant they leave his stupid mouth. His mother is fragile. She isn't really there. He can't be mad that they're not living in a fairytale where a girl with sunny locks and a heart of gold heals whoever is hurt. He can't be sad, even if they had that conversation a million times.

A twinkle lights his mother's eyes. "Oh, is he getting that fish I asked him to buy? I nagged him so much to get it, but he always refuses to go to the supermarket alone. 'It's your job, wife!', he always says. Let me tell you, he is just scared he won't find the things we need." Her giggle hides her son's silence. She pats his shoulder tenderly. Her bony fingers whip his flesh. "It's a good thing you can do simple things alone. You'll attract a good wife like that, you know. Women like it when a man can take care of himself like a grown-up and doesn't act like a baby in front of the simplest chore."

"Or I could be a good stay-at-home husband," Issei jokes softly. He's thankful she didn't understand his words, he really is. His mouth turns sour at the thought. What a fucked up thing to be thankful about. She's losing her grasp on reality and her memories and he's thankful.

She chuckles behind her hand. "Then you should upgrade your cooking skills. You won't attract a high-salary wife with your shabby omurice. And let me remind you that your idea of cleaning is hiding your mess, young man."

Issei laughs. He wants to bury his face in his hands and weep. Each morning is the same and he can't deal with it the way he should. He should be strong, but he is a mess. One day, his mother will see through the cracks.

The rest of the morning is more natural. He gently helps her up and rearranges the mountain of pillows that is supposed to keep her in a comfortable position. Her forced smile when he moves her around tells a different story. He holds her hand (as if it could ease the pain). Her black hair is scattered on her pillows and everywhere else.

They chatter about nonsensical things. She gives him orders from her bed when he prepares her breakfast. Put more salt, don't let the soup boils, the rice is going to be overcooked… As always, he promises he will eat his breakfast while walking to school. He needs to get there early. Summer break officially ended yesterday and he doesn't want to be late, he claims.

She squeezes his hand one last time after she has eaten the last tiny rice grain in her bowl. "Have a good day at school, Ise." She says softly. Issei can almost catch a glimpse of the woman who raised him then.

He nods. He lets an easy smile covers his lies. "You too, mom."

Issei turns around and calmly leaves.

* * *

His boss nods at him when Issei sneaks his way into the storage room. The man briskly closes the door behind him. Issei ignores the distinct sound of a lock. He doesn't like small closed spaces, but he is an underage (illegal, the real word is _illegal_ ) worker. He can't ask for a real wage, so asking for an open door that will probably let people who shouldn't see him actually see him is a big no-no.

He rolls up his sleeves and attacks his first task. His job is simple. Put junks (sweets and shits that make his stomach churns and his mouth waters) on shelves. Reorganize the shelves when it is needed. Put it all on paper so the boss knows where everything goes. Package pre-ordered stuff in boxes. Throw away the expired sweets. Turn his gaze as he does that. Important rule, that one. He can't eat them. No, no, no. His boss will kill him if he sees the sinful act of eating his property. Issei isn't even supposed to think about eating 'em. Plus, he threw up the last time he binged on expired candies. His mother was frantic.

All in all, his job asks for no brain power whatsoever. However, it beefs the muscles he didn't know he had. His big shoulders don't fit with the rest of his 'I'm-a-twig' body.

Nothing fits him, really. He's either a shrimp ready to be beaten for his bullies' pleasure or an abandoned son with a sick mother, sometimes both at the same time. He's not been Hyoudou Issei, the friendly neighboring kid with a perfectly normal and boring life, in a long time.

He is a pitiful child and that's it. Teachers pity his future and, ah, how do they call it? Issei remembers clapping mouths. They called it his 'wasted potential'. They don't punish him when he arrives a bit later than what is normally accepted. They give him light punishments when punishment they must give. His classmates dislike him for that. The teachers pity him even more and his classmates are starting to hate him now. It's a vicious circle he hasn't quite figured how to get out of. So he doesn't go to school. Maybe he will later, before his teachers or some kind of social workers come to his door, troubled for his well-being and education. They can't have another kid join the small but still there group of dropouts. Issei imagines adults fighting dropout statistics with though love and long lectures. He snorts.

All in all, working is simpler. Working puts money in his bank account and pays the bills. Working means he doesn't have to talk with people he feels alienated from.

A peculiar box takes him more time than necessary. Issei stretches his shoulders. He silently curses whoever relocated the matcha candies without notifying anybody. He runs through the aisles to finish more quickly. The boss is always looming in the store, watching. He rewards efficiency with a pat and what he deems like slacking with a slap.

Issei is not a fan of his boss's slaps.

The teen stops to breathe in slowly. The temperature in the storage room is cool enough, yet his shirt is already glued to his back. His shoulders sag. What is he even doing, running around like the illegal worker he sure is? He is underpaid and overworked. He could, should be at school-

Pain jolts his jaw close. Issei closes his eyes and tries to forget hard knuckles. No. School is not a place for him. Neither is home. Their old neighbor is taking care of his mother for a small wage. He is not needed there. He needs his job so it remains so.

Issei clenches his jaw and puts whatever he is feeling into lining and arranging the items perfectly on the shelves.

"Stay positive, Issei. Positive." He breathes through teeth.

Positivity is the key to a longer, worriless life.

The pays is good enough, the boss ain't treating him like an animal and the whole street knows he is ready to work like an ox for some pocket money. Or food. He hasn't enough time in his day to think about prepubescent monkeys or fake-ass adults.

Many minutes and boxes later, another 'worker' shows up.

They glance at each other. They nod at each other. Issei turns and goes back to his boxes.

He knows her somewhat. They did some shifts together in the past. They never did talk though. The boss is always looming close by. Silence improves production according to him.

Issei doesn't know what they could've talked about anyway, beside basic courtesy. Small talks and any kinds of normal subjects of conversation feel so alien to him now.

She looks foreign. Asian, but foreign. Filipina, probably. She looks old enough to be a mother, but Issei has never had particularly good eyes. In his defense, she looks kind of ageless. She could be in her mid 40's or in her mid 20's. A strange tiredness pinches her brows and slows her every moment. She is efficient in her work, yes, but… there's something, Issei doesn't know what, that unnerves him about her.

Perhaps the fact that, at her age, she is stuck doing what he does.

Issei never glances too long at her. A voice inside his ear whispers that it's not nice to stare while another snorts and asks if Issei is scared by the future he watches unravel in front of him. One day, he will bear her not-quite formed wrinkles and hung his shoulders as low as hers.

The door opens. Issei focuses on the items in his hands. The boss is there.

The boy gently pushes a box of chocolate farther on the shelf. He isn't busy or running late, but he needs to appear to be working. Slackers lose their job quick enough here.

A cold wind caresses his cheek as the door is closed.

The boss passes him without a single remark. He marches towards her.

"What is this?" Issei hunches his shoulders and makes himself as small as possible. He hides in plain sight, forehead against cool steel. He knows that tone. The boss is not happy.

The boy resolutely looks at his boxes. So many left to open and so many stuff to place somewhere. He should work. Close his ears. Blind his eyes. Shut his heart. Simple things for his simple brain.

He doesn't hear the insults.

He doesn't hear the smack.

He doesn't hear the haunting silence of a victim who knows better than to complain.

He hears nothing.

Hours later, he is let out by his smiling boss.

The boss, like any Friday, looks around nervously before handing him a wad of bills. "There you go, Ise-kun."

Issei feels the bills as he stuffs them in his pocket. He pauses and looks down. There are two more bills and the number on them is not small. A solemn man in an old western suit stares at him through age and rumpled paper money.

"What is this?" Issei cringes at his own choice of words.

The boss smiles good-naturally, obvious to his young helper's inner turmoil. "A small bonus. You work very well for such a small guy."

Issei thanks him. Internally, the rotten part of his brain wonders if it is a bribe to shut his mouth. He inwardly mocks his own thought. A boss being a boss is neither noteworthy nor scandalous. If Issei were to talk, he would only worsen everything for everybody involved.

The boss is just honestly happy with him. Issei doesn't know what to think of that, so he doesn't.

"See you on Monday, Ise."

"Yes, sir." Issei bows.

She is still in the backroom when Issei comes back. She is out of sight, but he knows she is in there. He can hear her rummage through a box in the depth of the room. Her coat hangs on a shelf. The door that leads to their working room is slightly ajar. Issei fights the urge to nudge it close.

He glances one last time at the door then stuffs his 'bonus' in her inner pocket. Extra pocket money is hard to come by for him; it must be the same for her. It will not heal her bruise or balm her soul, but it is better than nothing. Better than silence.

Issei leaves, fists stuffed in his pockets.

Time to get food.

The teen skips out through the backdoor. He can't pass by the front door; black market workers are not supposed to be seen or heard. Only their work shall be presented to the world. And the merit of it will go better somebody else's reputation.

Issei's okay with that. His bank account would be oh so much more pitiful without that job. Life's better when you can pay the bills. Who really cares where the money comes from? He ain't breaking any major laws with his odd-jobs. He ain't selling his ass. He rents his small strength and muscled shoulders. That's it.

The one who would get in trouble for it all would be his boss. And the other workers. Issei is just underage. The others are real illegal workers. In a sense, his boss trusts him very much. He trusts him to not tell the truth. That, or he knows how much Issei needs the money.

Issei chases such heavy thoughts with a small jog through his boss's garden. The faster he will be out, the better it will be for his nose. Garbage and old cardboard boxes cover the feeble grass. The humidity of the end of summer sticks to everything like a lead weight. Nobody feels like really working. Elders squat on the threshold of their house with a fan, melon seeds and some nice refreshments. Dogs and cats are napping in the shade. People are dragging themselves around and crawling towards the cool places. There, of course, they eat cold dishes.

Only Koreans would eat piping hot soup during summer.

Under the grey, humid sky, Issei could develop a certain fondness for his workplace. He almost has it in him to pray for his fellow students, working in classes that have no AC. Sucks for them.

He wanders from one shade to another until he smells good food.

The old couple living on the corner of the main street sells Takoyaki that are simply out of this world. What kind of drug does the cook put in them to make them so delish? Issei doesn't know. It doesn't stop him from buying or begging for a small golden ball of fat and octopi every other day.

As usual, he goes to stand nonchalantly near the costumers' taken stools.

The stall is as busy as ever. The old cook, behind his small counter, sweats as he turns the delicate balls with a sure hand. To avoid any human liquids from getting in them pockets of happiness, he stands a bit awkwardly, arching his aching back.

His costumers hover between talking and watching the master performs. Some have clipped chats with the cook. Children are playing around them, running everywhere with their red, red, red gundams. Red like silky hair, crimson like reptilian scales and burgundy like death itself.

Issei looks away.

The wife waltzes between the stools with practiced agility, pouring beer and serving her trademark mizu yokan. Its taste is slightly different every day. Sometimes, she stuffs it with sweet chestnut or fruits. Sometimes it is plain, and yet… everybody yearns for it more than they do their imaginary lover. She claims she has no special recipe. If she really has no special ingredient and doesn't drug her confections, Issei is ready to say she has magical powers.

The customers cheer for her when she gets the bubbly liquid out from behind the stall. She, as bubbly, if not more, asks about their dog's health and the weather in their parents' hometown.

Issei's pretty sure she knows everything there is to know about all of her costumers. He rubs his empty stomach and puts on his best 'I'm-hungry-please-feed-me' face when she faces him. It involves a lot of jutting his lips out and pitiful, tearful eyes.

She rolls her eyes and beckons him closer. Issei is happy to oblige.

"Little Ise, you should have just approached my husband." The lecture is over in an instant. She gives him two of the trays in her hand. "Table 5 and 6. On your way, young man."

Issei mocks a salute for his captain. The next second, he is jumping over stretched out legs and happily serving amazing looking mizu yokan to content and slightly drunk costumers. Just glancing at it, Issei knows it's as smooth as a small round rock eroded by the sea. It looks cool and refreshing and his mouth is definitely watering. The cherry stuffed mizu yokan is serenading his stomach.

"Little Ise!" Her voice calls him back to earth. Issei dutifully thanks the customers who have finished their meal and greets the ones that have just sat down. He will eat one. Later.

He hops his way to the stall. The wife loads his arms with plates. The cook glances at him. Issei flees before he gets another lecture, this time longer and definitely harsher.

After one hour, his arms are finally remembering he has spent the day putting heavy loads on the highest shelves his boss could construct. His stomach stopped rumbling sometimes ago. It just aches from time to time. Like always.

The wife is drinking tea and chatting with her costumers. She doesn't even order Issei around anymore, simply letting him serve the clients while she rests her legs.

As the evening's life starts its quick ascension toward a busy night, their part-timer shows up. He glances at Issei and frowns. Issei nods up at him and backs down. He adds a light smile as an after-thought. He isn't here to steal jobs or provoke a man with more muscles than he does.

Issei sneaks his way to the stall and deposits the money he ransacked on his way in the cash register. His work is officially done. He will be able to get his second meal of the day.

"Youngsters these days only know how to be obedient when they can get food out of it." The cook grumbles as he twists golden balls of goodness. Issei says nothing. The cook's lectures are always shorter when he shuts up and nods obediently a few times there and here. Behind him, his wife is putting takoyakis and mizu yokan in a bag. It falls in Issei's hands.

"Go home." She pats his shoulder gently.

Issei thanks her like he always does. He knows his words will never be able to convey how much of a good person she is.

He is on the run a second later. It's getting late. His mother must be waiting.

Before getting home, Issei goes to the river that calmly passes through their town. He searches for his quiet spot. The one they found together, when he was so small and the other seemed like an unyielding and unbreakable man.

He looks around for no reason in particular. It's too late for anybody to be there. Only he and pensioners like to sit there, watching the too calm river wash away flowers and leaves. It's too calm for students and too remote for working adults.

He is neither, so it's perfect for him. He splashes away his memories of the place. He rinses his hands in the somewhat clean water. He can't smell like alcoholic grease and sweet sweat when he gets home.

His schoolbag is where he left it. Under dense shrubs that proliferate wildly beside his river. In spring, they sport pink flowers. Issei doesn't know their name, but his mother likes their scent. She had loved it when he had pruned a branch covered with blooming flowers and buds to decorate her bedroom.

Where is it now?

Issei squats down. He soaks his hands in the water, watching the flow takes small leaves away. What did he do with the branch when all the flowers wilted? The garbage. He put it in the garbage. But he remembers pressing one of the flowers, the most beautiful of them all in her eyes. It looked crooked in his.

It still must be in one of the books in his bedroom. He will search for it and give it to her tomorrow.

The boy dries his hands against his pants. Time to go, his mother is waiting. He can't be idle all day.

He runs.

The small door of their tiny apartment opens crankily. Nothing a bit of oil can't resolve, he muses.

The smell that wafts to his nose tells him he can be himself. She never cooks when she is not okay.

"Mom! I'm home!" Issei shouts, reaching for the inside of his bag where their takoyakis are waiting to be eaten.

She looks up from her book with a good smile. Her red tuque is lovely. She looks so strong, pale and fragile against the black leather of their couch, but still strong in front of whatever life throws at her. His throat dries and he hopes she will talk. He can't.

"You're late today." She accuses over her book. Its title catches his eyes. _Japanese trees and how to take care of them_. Just her kind of nerdy books.

The spell on his tongue is broken. He is quick to join his hands together to pray for mercy. "Sorry, my club's activities lasted longer than expected." He glances at her expression and knows he isn't in too much trouble. He wiggles his hand out of his bag, treasure finally visible. "But our club's president treated us to some delish takoyakis! I kept some for you."

She raises an eyebrow. "Takoyaki? When I cooked a delicious meal for you?"

Issei glances at the table and yes, as he smelled it and hoped, she cooked for him. A full course dinner with rice, soup, fish and all the things he can't quite cook like her (he burns the ingredients most often than not to his great shame. They cost money. He literally burns money and ends up eating black charred things not fit for consumption. Good job Issei.).

Issei sits down. She flutters around the table, poking the things he took home with the interest of a ruffled mother. She mutters darkly about fat and grease and how it's bad for his body. He allows himself this moment to relax, to stop thinking.

His mother is there, for now.

* * *

Schedule is on my profile.

Reviews are welcome. (AKA I'll do a backflip (and most certainly destroy my back) for reviews.)

9/9/2018


	2. Imperfect reality

[Partner,] a voice rasps out in utter desperation, [Vali is otherwise occupied for the moment. You do not have to worry about him. We must devise plans against Chaos Brigade. They are, as you said previously, a wacky bunch.]

A brown haired teen pouts. "Hmmm. I guess. But still, Vali's power is a huge problem. He tried to halve Buchou's breasts, you know."

The young human would look serious if his hands weren't twitching and groping the air so much.

Ddraig remains silent for a moment. Issei pokes the green jewel where the dragon's soul resides. [… I believe he simply threatened to do so. Chaos Brigade, on the other hand, wants to cause a civil war.]

"Yeah... you're right." Issei agrees half-heartedly. It's okay, though. They will find a solution. A civil war can't just happen in the Underworld. The Maous are strong enough to hold their stuff together and do the mumbo-jumbo politic thing they're supposed to do. Rias' brother is awesome. He likes breasts and has a maid waifu. Plus, he knows what to do so everything will be fine. Beside, his peerage can help. They did fight against Kokabiel and his crazies. They can hold off the Brigade's crazies until they realize they're being stupid and stop being, huh, themselves.

"Issei, come to bed."

He twists his neck. A blush darkens his skin and threatens to overtake the tip of his ears when he sees his master. A white babydoll, stark against her sunset hair, molds her every curves. Issei can't help but stare as the fabric dances around her thighs.

Ddraig takes this moment to grumble something about beauty sleep. He disappears from Issei's consciousness. The teen snaps from his trance and offers a weak smile to his master.

"B-buchou." He stutters some more words but he doesn't think they are intelligible. She is so beautiful he is losing his language.

"You're so cute." She pinches his cheek affectionately. He leans in. He basks in her beauty and affection.

The real Issei, the one who doesn't have a sentient dragon inside his body, wakes with a start. He stares at his white ceiling. He breathes in, just a little, secretly hoping to bask in a sweet fragrance, something akin to the scent of peach or pear. Mysterious, sweet, beloved.

Nothing.

He closes his eyes. His girlish eyelashes brush his cheeks. Dreams are dreams, he reasons. He needs to focus on what's real. School called again yesterday. He needs to show up more to satisfy the administration's requirements. He needs to stay under the radar, be it the school's, the teachers' or his dear schoolmates'.

No work for him today then, he decides. He will go to school three days this week and spins some tales about his mother's worrying health (they are not _tales_ ) to get out of the two left.

Issei gets up and leaves.

* * *

School hasn't changed since the end of summer break. Same cliques. Same teachers. Same urge to turn back as soon as he sits on his designated seat. He scratches the polished surface with his nonexistent nails. The school felt charitable and gave him a new desk after his friendly class ruined the last one.

The only difference he manages to find is that the students are less moany and sweaty than the last time he stood in their presence. Issei absently looks at the windows from his seat on the first row. The temperature is cooling slowly but surely. Summer cannot drag its claws across time as if it had no end.

(Beautiful dreams always end.)

Hints appear, here and there, to preface the arrival of the colder seasons. The trees are changing their clothes to say goodbye to the last days of warmth. The wind is no longer a kind friend who cools the heat of summer. It is a gust that smells like rain and pushes people into warmer clothes.

The sound of footsteps sweeps his mind away from falling leaves and the dread they bring as they die, crumpled on the ground. People walk by him. Issei shrinks on his chair. He would have preferred a place farther from the door to their classroom. A nice little seat in the back would have given him less unfortunate contacts with people. Alas, his height works against him. Being one of the shortest teens in his year sucks big time.

Some of his classmates glance at his general direction. One does his very best to make it look as if he had not noticed him at all. Issei avoids looking at him, too.

Around him, people talk about their weekend, their nice dog and playful cat, their idol and the last project they have to finish for science. Some girls whisper about that really hot upperclassman and some boys make jokes about the beauty who graces their school with her presence.

Issei doodles on his homeworks. He finishes the ones he hadn't time to do before and hopes their teacher will be lenient. He is five days late for that project (a text about their future and what they want to do after they finish their education. Issei invented what he couldn't see for himself. Today, he is a chemist. Tomorrow, he might be Mother Teresa.).

Their teacher walks in with a stack of paper. He throws it on his desk and his students watch, amused. Bets always go round on how many will fall to the ground each morning. None falls today.

Issei lets his right leg moves up and down, sending vibrations around him. His table shakes. His teacher faces the classroom with a tired look. No good tidings for Issei and his way too late project. That old man becomes moody when he is tired. Losing his temper over simple things like whispering students and slow paced work is not uncommon for him.

"Attendance roll. Akisa Hikari?" The teacher calls over the dregs of conversations. A jock tries to murmur a last joke before a scalding look from their teacher zips his mouth.

A girl two rows behind Issei raises her hand dutifully. "Here."

Issei knows he is the 11th person on that roll. He counts them idly.

"Hyoudou Issei?" The teacher knows he is here. Issei has seen him stare in his direction over the rims of his golden glasses. He literally passed by him to get to his own desk. There is literally no point to the attendance roll, no point to being called when he is so visibly present. There's no point at being here either, no point at all.

"Here." The boy still dutifully raises his hand.

The teacher sends him a nod of acknowledgement before droning on. Issei lowers his arm. He counts the remaining members of their tribe named C-3. They're all here today.

Classes happen. Issei stays put when he is told to stay put and goes out when the teacher forcefully gets him out of the classroom for recess. He wanders around, hovering near his classmates, observing. He ducks his head and looks absently at his shoes when a group of particularly vicious girls ogle him.

The leather of his shoes needs a good shine. He dares to glimpse upwards and yes, they're still watching him like hawks. They don't do a good job at hiding their chuckles and laughs. He feels their glances and the judgments crawl under his skin, but he perseveres in looking oblivious. His schoolmates can think all they want; he knows they will not say that he is not welcome or appreciated aloud. They will silently curse his existence yet endure it. It would be too out of style, too unnatural, to actually do something. Too like him.

Only fools try to leave the safety of the masses.

Issei looks up. The way the light goes through the foliage of the few trees that were brave enough to grow in their schoolyard catches his eyes. He admires it quietly as he let his feet guide him to the outskirts of moving groups made of apes in human form. Being alone brings more misery than he is ready to face today. Being with his group means he could face probable abasement. Issei prefers insults to hits.

The bell rings. It is a familiar call back to classes and long periods of ennui.

Issei follows his class inside. As he passes through the gate, a shoulder collides with his. He stumbles. His hip is smashed against the metallic door. A yelp escapes him. _Ow._

"Hyoudou. Long time no see."

Issei clenches his jaw around a grunt. He glances up through his lashes. Two boys are crowding his personal bubble. One looks as refined as polished jade and the other resembles the first teen's inside. Dark, crooked and disgusting. Two names appear in Issei's mind.

He discards the second boy's name. Unimportant. Unskilled. Unintelligent. Tomou is none of these things.

Issei breathes in and leans against the door, as if he was holding it instead of using as a support for his throbbing leg. People pass them. He tilts his head nonchalantly, seemingly neither answering nor acknowledging Tomou's existence. He is actually angling his head to see his teacher.

Finally, Issei sees a familiar gleam, the one reflected by his teacher's bald head. He is getting farther away as he talks with one of his students.

"How is your mommy, Hyoudou?" Tomou's minion aka best friend is in his face now.

Issei doesn't move away. Weak people move away and then they get bullied. He doesn't respond. Weak people fall for baits like that and then their bullies never stop using them, because they know where it hurts.

Issei is damn done with sharing his failings and baring his soul to soulless humans.

He stares.

(He knows the other kids are uncomfortable when he stares blankly at them. That's why he uses it. Two can play the same game. Wanna mess with the weird abandoned kid? Get burned, fucker.)

"Inami." Tomou, the refined jade boy, pouts reproachfully at his minion. "You know you shouldn't ask that. His mother is in such a bad shape. It's a good thing that Issei can even show up at school from time to time. But," and there Tomou turns his gaze towards Issei and his face takes on a grimmer look, "you should really come more often. I know it's difficult, but your grades won't get better if you stay at home."

Issei admires Tomou a bit when he shows such skills. It's not everybody who can flawlessly insult someone and still look like a caring saint while doing so. He is an artist who knows his art. A real white lotus. Still, without 'Inami', he wouldn't look as good. That guy is a precious crude foil.

However, Issei chooses silence again. He knows better than to answer. Tomou muddles his mind. He twists the words that leave Issei's mouth to match his desires too easily.

Tomou smiles as if he knows what Issei thinks.

Goosebumps rise on his arms. The auburn-haired boy crosses his arms. The fabric of his sleeves grates his skin.

"How is your father, Issei? I heard he's working in Tokyo now." Tomou asks gently. He never raises his voice. Their schoolmates still listen to him and drink his every word.

Inami snickers.

People here feel a strange mix of emotions when it comes to the ones who decide to leave for the capital. There are certainly more opportunities for them in the big city, but on the other hand, they abandon their hometown. Good for 'em _traitors_ , most think as they congratulate the ones who leave. Yet, several would leap into the unknown if they were given the chance.

Issei knows that is not the reason why Inami snickers behind his hand like a fucking moron. He pinches his arm through the fabric of his uniform.

"He is well," Issei answers curtly. He has nothing else to say on the matter. His father is neither dead nor sick. Therefore, he is well.

Tomou doesn't lose his amiable face. Inami finally controls his grimace, aka bad case of 'I-really-wanna-court-death-today'.

"How wonderful." Tomou beams as if he actually cared. "My mom hopes to see him for the neighbors' meetup, since your mother will not show up. She knows he adores her brownies. Will he come with a partner?"

Issei closes his eyes and pretends blinking is a very slow process for him. Sweetly violent images flash in his mind. He can't. He must not. He must not think about it. Issei's already close to being a 'problematic child' in his school's eyes. Too many days he disappeared without a word. Too many times he was late for a project or for classes. His mother is dying, yes, but she's been dying for too long. They can't be that understanding that long. Smashing Tomou's head against a desk would be sweet, yes, but the consequences would be bitter.

He needs a perfect record. At least on that aspect, because he well knows he sucks at school. If, one day, maybe, he wants to continue his studies, he needs to be able to show something good about himself. What's better than a pristine 'I never killed anybody at school'? It's something. It could help him go back to school or get a job. He doesn't have Tomou's effortless charm. Or parents that can cover for him and scream at teachers until the matter is left unsolved and their child, protected.

Plus, Tomou has one big brother in highschool. Issei doesn't know a thing about him, has never seen him or heard about him, but he knows that brothers side together against outsiders. And Tomou has friends. And his brother probably has friends.

Issei doesn't like the hospital that much.

The loner boy opens his eyes. "I do not think my father will be free that day."

"I haven't told you when it would be." Tomou is still offering his infamous smile to the world.

Issei wants to tear his tongue out so that damned charmer finally shut the hell up and leaves him alone. Maybe also die of blood loss in the process.

The bell rings a second time. Students run by them, hustling and bustling.

Issei does not answer Tomou's smile with his own awkward version of it. He is trapped in his enemy's web and they both know it.

"He is very busy these days," the trapped teen bites out. He shifts and looks towards the interior of the school. He needs to be in his class before the third bell too.

"That's all right. We can move the date around. Nothing is set in stones yet." Tomou does not seem to worry about being late for class. His feet stay fixed in place. Issei will have to bypass him to go inside.

"Thank you." Issei says it because he is supposed to say it. Niceties are a big part of etiquette and public harmony. Public harmony is important. Strangling someone is not a good idea. It is not. He purses the inside of his bottom lip. His eyes catch a gleam. His heartbeat slows down.

"What are you kids doing? Haven't you heard the bell?" His teacher approaches them. He scans the three boys by the door with an annoyed look. His disapproving glare deepens when his eyes fall on Issei.

"Sir, Issei is always alone, so we invited him to play." Tomou stands too close, smiling that awful smile that spells trouble for him and charm for everybody else.

"Good idea," the bald teacher grunts. He must never think about the fact that, maybe, kids are actually evil creatures that just want to devour each other.

"Come with us after school. We found a nice place to play." Tomou pats his shoulders. Issei cannot control his cringe.

"Yes, very nice indeed," Inami echoes, even if nobody asked him to be a broken recorder forever latching on his master's words.

"You will come, right?" Tomou lowers his voice in the end, as if he was telling his darkest secrets and not publicly asking his 'friend' to come get beaten. His hand has become a claw, not yet digging in the flesh of his prey's shoulder, but pressing it down so that his victim cannot move. Gone is the charming boy who entangles people in his web with sweet words; Issei, the little fly, can only see a spider ready to feast.

Issei knows what nice place they're talking about and what game they want to play. He was stupid enough to go once. The bruises took weeks to fade away. He shrugs Tomou's hand away.

The bell rings a third time. Tomou takes it as his cue to leave. He waves at him, bows towards the only adult, says some niceties and ever so slowly makes his way to the stairs.

Tomou's minion throws a whispered 'creep' at Issei before he scrams to hang on his master's clothes. The teacher follows suit, sure that the ugly little duckling named Hyoudou Issei will follow.

The teen doesn't move. Nothing can save his reputation, not even showing up bravely to be beaten up or be ridiculed. So why care?

He stretches his aching shoulders. Maybe he pushed himself too hard at work yesterday. Maybe he is too high strung thanks to his little chat with Tomou. He sighs. He misses his bed. School is tiring. Tomou is tiring. Talking is tiring.

Issei is shameless when it comes to finding excuses to not stay at school. (He ain't taking shit anymore today.)

His gaze is attracted to the light that pours through the foliage. Such a beautiful day. Such a beautiful day and he is wasting it all doing nothing and enduring everything.

His feet move.

"Hyoudou, where are you going?" The teacher is upset with him. He left without saying goodbye to his elders. Real breach of etiquette, that is. His imperfect behavior is deepening.

He hears quick steps coming for his shadow. Issei leaps forward and runs. The gates are closing. He hits his wrist against one but still manages to pass through. The guard bellows something about bells and shitty behaviour that leads to a miserable life. Issei is already too far to go back inside the campus. He doesn't look back.

He lets his feet lead him.

The warmth of their apartment welcomes him. He lets any bad thoughts slide from his shoulders to Hell, to be forgotten there.

"Ise." There's his mother, lounging on the couch. She waves at him before she eyes his uniform.

"Hi, mom." A note from their neighbor claims his attention one second. He reads it quickly. She is next door, preparing food. She will be back soon.

Issei grimaces. The old lady will not be happy to see him back so soon from school. He will hear another lecture about his wasted future tonight.

His mother coughs softly. He looks up to see her raised eyebrows and inquisitive glance. His mother's plaid blanket is half-heartedly covering her knees. Issei wants to reach for it to tuck her in it correctly. "Aren't you supposed to be at school?"

"No," he lies. Every day can be Sunday if he claims them to be so enough times.

She frowns. "Aren't you awfully free these days? You were at home yesterday too."

"Yesterday was Sunday, mom." That's not a lie. "I had school this morning." Still not a lie. "We're in the exams week. They let us leave when we're done so we don't disturb the peoples that haven't finished their test." Liar, liar, pants on fire.

His mother looks delighted. "Oh. That's nice. They didn't do that in my time. We had to stay, whether we were finished or not. Many students left anyway. But not me. I was always one of the latest to finish my exams. I reviewed them a dozen times to make sure there were no errors, but I always forgot one or two. That used to make me so angry."

She sighs and smiles about better time. He is happy she's talkative. Yet another good reason why he shouldn't be at school right now. The warmth and light pouring from the windows are delicious. So are the stories she spins for him.

The lithe little woman he calls 'mom' shifts forwards to be able to pat his hand. "You need to study properly. Did you?"

Issei nods. He tilts his lips upwards and hopes she doesn't see all the guilt dripping from them. "I did. I studied pretty hard with my friends before the exams' week."

"That's why you always came late and smelled like food?"

Issei fights his old habit of chewing on his nails. She still perceives so much, sometimes. "Yes."

She smiles at him knowingly. "Were you all studious? You're sure you weren't just playing around on your computers?"

"Of course not, mom. I know I need good grades." He does, but he doesn't care. He's not sure he will finish middle school, so grades… are secondary on his list of important things.

She is not quite done yet. He can see it in the way she believes about half of what he said. "You didn't eat snacks during the whole time, right?"

"No." He snorts.

She hums. "A warm dinner is always better to fill your belly than some snacks. Companies put so many bad things in their products now to save money. Shame on them. Well, the government tries to rein them in, but you can never completely control people who can only think about money. They're endangering people's health and they don't care."

Issei smiles at her lively speech. He has nothing intelligent to add. She is the witty one in their little family, when her brain accepts to work.

Her gaze wanders around the living room. She sighs. "Ise, have you seen my book?"

Issei doesn't even bother to pretend. He goes to her side and picks it up from the coffee table.

His mother sighs again. "I finished that book. I'm talking about the one about gardening… it has a pink cover, I think."

Issei bends down and reviews the books on the table. Then, he looks around the room, rejected book still in hands. He gets a giggle from his mother when he pretends to check under her covers. He winks at her as he raises her feet in the air. He squints and pats the warm leather.

"No book there," he announces as he tucks her back under her covers.

"Don't be so silly. Find it, please," she chastises him half-heartedly.

He tickles her feet one last time. She kicks his hands away. "I think I saw it in your room. I'll be back with it real quick."

He leaves the living room. He turns the book in his hands so its pink cover is visible. He wanders a full thirty seconds in the hallway before he hops back to her side with her desired book held high in the air. "There it is, mom."

"Thank you, dear." She smiles and doesn't notice it is the very book she refused a moment ago. She's been stuck on _Japanese_ _trees and how to take care of them_ for two months now.

Issei gives away the book with a smile. He is happy to sit down and observe her. She seems so well today. He has to bask in the moment.

The present is all that they have.

Hyoudou Hikari is withering along the trees' leaves. Issei fears winter.

He fears cold nights. They need to spend as little as possible to make ends meet. Electricity is expensive. Heating their apartment might prove to be a challenge. He will put on more clothes, but will she be alright...? Or he could just heat up the living room and move her there. She would be close to the kitchen, the bathroom and her favorite window. She likes to be able to peer at the street and observe people from her perch. People who don't live in her stilted time. People who move forward.

Issei feels his throat clog up. Her talks, be it when she is lucid or when she is not, have taken on a dark turn a few days ago.

He doesn't know how to lighten her mood. It's a good thing she hasn't held on that somber attitude.

Issei cannot take her out anymore. Her legs don't work the way they used to. She needs long breaks every few meters. A month ago, they could easily sit on a bench and talk about the lives of the people who passed by them. His mother knows them all by name. Their town is not big enough for her to not know their tragedies and happiness. Some of them stop and greet the boy and his mother, offering comfort and kindness or awkward questions about her health. The pair smiles at the former and never answers the later.

Now, it's becoming too cold to do that. The humidity pierces clothes and freezes bones.

A cough brings him back to the present. She's staring at him, puzzled.

"Child, what are you doing here?"

Issei sits in silence.

"Where are your parents?"

He stares at her until she goes back of her own volition to the same page she's been reading for the past 10 minutes. She has already forgotten that she had forgotten him.

* * *

The wind is cold.

He shifts and crosses his arms. His hand caresses the new seam over his wrist. He sewed back the broken ends of his sleeve himself. They flapped in the wind before and offered his arm to the cold. It was annoying enough that he searched on the Internet how to sew. Do-it-yourself is all the craze right now. It's not that bad though. Knowing how to do basic things can't be a bad thing.

He snorts at a memory. His mother fussed over him during the whole process. She made infuriating comments and stole his needle to do or redo some parts when he was not looking. She did show him a useful trick, so she is forgiven. He now knows how to put the thin thread into the eye of the needle without pricking his fingers or stabbing his eyes.

He shifts on his bench. It's brand new and close to his usual spot by the river. It means more people will come by when the weather is good and they most certainly will discover his spot of peace, but it's too cold for anybody to want to explore for the moment. He's all alone with his thoughts and the river.

He doesn't really want to go home. He has no work today. School sucks.

Their neighbor took pity in him and literally pushed him out of their apartment, claiming it couldn't be healthy to stay inside all day long. She promised to take good care of his mother. Issei knows she will. She had always taken cautious care of his mother, never losing her patience with his mother's erratic behaviors and numb body.

A grating beep disturbs his silence.

Issei fishes his phone out. He turns his phone between his fingers for a moment. Its terrible buzz makes his fingers tremble. He bites into the flesh around his non-existent nails. He chewed his frustration away on them.

He knows by heart the number lighting up its screen.

He pushes the green button. "Hello, doctor."

"Hyoudou-kun." Issei nods at nothing, by force of habit. "We contacted your father. He opted for hospital's care. A team will come collect your mother's things on Sunday."

Issei clenches his lips on a whimper. A mongrel version of it still echoes in the air. "Is there no way to keep her at home?"

"No. Your father is her legal guardian as she has no other relatives. You do not count, considering your young age. And he is the one paying." The doctor gives a textbook answer. Bland and heartless.

"Thank you, doctor." He doesn't know what he is thankful for, but he has no other words. He wants this conversation to end.

"You will see her during the visitors' hours." That sentence is meant to comfort him, Issei knows. It just makes him want to drown.

"Thank you," Issei repeats himself.

The doctor says some other words before hanging up, but the boy doesn't listen.

He watches the falling leaves sink in the water of his little river.

His frail ship is sinking too.

His finger toys with his phone until he has typed a familiar phone number.

"This number does not exist. Please type a new number."

Issei glares at nothing and disconnects the call. It is not the first time he has tried to reach his father. The same voice with the same answer reaches his ears and melts his brain every time.

'Time heals wounds' is absurd as a theorem.

Issei has feared the burn. He has feared the coming wound for so, so long. Now, it's here.

He feels numb.

Nothing can heal his mother.

No doctors can take out the small tumor that has taken residency in her brain. Or some are liars. They don't dare to perform such a risky surgery, don't dare to have a smudge on their perfect record. People hate imperfections. His father is no different. He hated his imperfect son and broken wife, so he left. His mother is leaving too now. Everybody is leaving. She will be gone soon.

Issei stuffs his hands back into his pockets. He gets up slowly. No reason to stay outside and freeze his ass when he could be inside. With her. For their last days together.

(Oh god, the river is calling him, whispering sweet promises of release and Issei doesn't want to fight anymore-)

He blinks. A vision overtakes him. He sits on his bench before he loses all senses of reality.

"Issei. This the entrance of the Underworld."

Issei blinks. He looks around.

There's a guy on a bench (from his clothes and overall state of uncleaness, Issei gathers he is a hobo), a bunch of rugged bricks on the ground and a ruined wall in front of them. The only colorful thing around is the pink umbrella between the hobo's hands.

Issei is not impressed. He scratches his cheek and glances at his Buchou. The 'let-me-disappear-into-a-seal-like-a-badass' is a thousand times better. Why can't they do that all the time anyway?

"Dummy," his master fondly admonishes him. "This is an illusion."

Issei nods his head as if he understood. His master's explanations are always way too long for his small brain. He prefers them short and sweet. Koneko is super good at that… when she isn't cursing him to die horribly. She has a special fondness for deaths that involve spikes and dildos. And all of that started just because he acts like a good Harem-King around her. Okay, he tried to get her panty-shot once or a thousand times. Okay, he acts like an ape in heat around her. Okay, trying to steal her gym clothes while she was showering wasn't his greatest idea. But… it's not his fault she looks like a perfect addition to his future Harem!

He will get her panty-shot, one sweet day. Maybe even more than that! That sole thought makes all the mental torture she puts him through worth it.

Plus, she is kind of cute when she is angry too. Like a small kitten who hisses at you with all its might, but it only succeeds in being cute. Except Koneko's punches hurt like hell everytime they touch him and they always, always connect. She calls training. He calls it abuse.

Buchou pinches him out of his Harem induced daydreaming.

He jolts. She chuckles. He blushes.

She hands something shiny to the hobo.

The hobo looks at her hand silently. Issei tenses up. He is not comfortable around strangers these days. And his Buchou is so beautiful the dude could have bad thoughts. He is the only one allowed to have bad thoughts around her.

Something happens, Issei's not sure what, and then there's a big ass door straight from the depth of some fantasy world where there was a ruined wall a second ago.

"Woah."

The vision ends like it started. Abruptly.

Issei tries to breath. Cold air enters his lungs yet he can't seem to process the precious molecules his brain needs to function correctly. He heaves.

Issei has seen these walls before. They are close to his day job, close to the sweet shop. He passed by them every day when he was in daycare. They exist. Has his rotten brain decided to torture him with visions of things that exist in half to mess with the little sanity he tries to keep? Dreams as well as daydreams. He will have to deal with fucking daydreams of chuuni fantasy.

How will he be able to work if he is completely unresponsive to the world on such short notice? Issei bites the skin left around his nails. He can't just go to his boss, be like, 'I'm gonna be out for 10 minutes, I'll be back soon'.

He hits his forehead until he feels numb. Fucking brain.

He stamps his feet and growls the biggest curse he knows. It doesn't feel as good as it should.

He knows he is going to finish his days in an asylum, mumbling about princesses and devils peeking into his brain and twisting his thoughts.

Better be in the apartment, a voice whispers. So no one sees you lose your damn mind.

He jogs all the way back, as if pushing himself until he feels like throwing up would will the insanity away. He passes people and ducks his head. He doesn't want to acknowledge them. He doesn't want to see people. He doesn't want to trigger another daydream.

He jogs past his home. He jogs past his job. He jogs past his daycare. He jogs past his insanity. He is going to prove his rotten brain reality is a thing and it exists. All this crazyness needs to stop. He needs to be whole, to be there for his mother during their last days together. Just a few more days. Just a few more hours. After Sunday, his brain can rot all it wants.

Finally, he stops and sees the walls he has seen so many times in his youth without really looking. He turns around, observing the devastated walls of his vision. They are here.

He sees it.

A pink umbrella, leaning against one of the falling brick wall. Its faded color doesn't stand out much against the dark red of the bricks. Issei reaches for it and picks it up.

He marvels at the dark dots that adorn it. Exactly like in his vision. His brain is really something else. To remember things he has only seen in passing… He would almost praise his memory if his mind hadn't used it against himself.

He decides to be bold.

"I need to go to the Underworld," Issei whispers to the umbrella. The thought that it might work irk his very soul. He is turning into the stupid pervert who thinks he can get everything handed to him on a silver plate by bimbos. As if. A universe separates them. Issei still wants to break his skull with his knuckles.

Now, his brain should understand nothing is going to happen and leave him be a little bit more normal during his day and night.

"Where to?" A voice says.

Issei jumps and turns around. An old man, half lounging on a rotten bench, stares at him. His hand goes up slowly and dirt is added to his face as he rubs the corner of his eyes. Issei is already back palling, an excuse ready on his lips. He is going crazy. He is bothering the poor man with his insanity.

"You're holding my umbrella, young one," the old man rumbles.

The boy is quick to give him his possession. "I'm sorry, I-."

Issei stops.

An old man with a pink umbrella on a rotten bench.

The teen clenches his fist around his thigh in hope of waking up. This is a daydream. It can only be a daydream. In one second, he will see the girl with crimson hair and she will smile at him tenderly to ease his awkwardness around the supernatural.

"Where is your master?" The old man's voice sounds like the grinding of a rock against an anvil.

"What?" Issei squeaks. He offers a weak smile to cover up the shameful sound. It doesn't stop it from echoing in his ears. He feels very, very small.

The old man raises his head and Issei sees glassy brown eyes behind locks of grey hair. "Where is your master, young one?"

Issei pauses. The world around him shifts. There is no blur, no lighting mightily hitting the ground, no dragons roaring in the distance nor magic trees growing around him. Yet, the world has changed. Magic is in the air. Finally.

Reality slams his brain around. Not a daydream! This is not a fucking daydream. His fingers bleed. He tries to unclench his fists a bit.

Issei thinks fast. His blood pressure skyrockets to new unknowns. In the end, thinking with a head full of visions of not-real moments and not-real people doesn't help. "He couldn't come today," the boy blurts out. He doesn't know who the 'he' he spoke of is. Yet.

The old harrumphs. "Lazy. Newbies like you should have your master around for the first ride."

Issei finds himself nodding along.

"Name?"

"Hyoudou Issei." Issei wonders if the old man will recognize the name. 'Buchou' knew about him before 'Issei' became her property, after all. But if the man does, does it mean he is daydreaming?

"The name of your master, kid." The old man is ever so not impressed.

"G-" Issei holds that name in. No. He is not in a daydream. Reality. Reality. He is not that 'Issei'. He said his master was a man. "Amon. My master is called Amon."

"Do you have a seal?"

A picture flashes before his eyes. Issei shakes his head and hopes for both rejection and acceptance. "No."

"Amon." The old man shrugs his head as if that uttered name explains everything about Issei's situation. "Your master is a little prince. I have heard that the Amon heir is not fond of low-levels like you. It seems to be true. Tell your master this is the last time I let you take the train without a seal. You should work hard to be recognized in the future."

Issei nods so hard his neck hurts. Everything is going too fast.

The old man opens his free hand and puts it under Issei's nose. "Fee is one yen."

Issei fishes around in his pockets. He finds the aluminum coin in the recess of his wallet after fumbling around for an uncomfortable period of time. He hands it to the old man who, not even once, lowered his hand during the long process.

The old man caresses the young tree on one side of the coin. "The fee has been paid," he rumbles. A ticket appears in his hands.

He hands the boy the train ticket. "When you arrive to your stop, do not buy anything whatsoever from the peddlers; they will bleed you white. They sell dreams for a dime and then you find yourself in the middle of nowhere the next morning, missing a kidney or two. Go directly to your destination."

Issei is listening with one ear. He looks down at his train ticket (a big _Underworld_ in fancy and glittery lettering stretches on the smooth piece of paper) then at the door that slowly but surely appears on the wall. It trickles down, bricks seemingly alive as they turn and adjust themselves to open the way. A high door, its highest point a dome pointing towards the sky, faces the boy.

The human boy is left speechless. Exactly like in your dream, an ancient voice grumbles in his ear. He touches the door, fingertips trembling as they touch cool metal that can only be real. The real, not special Issei, has found something unnatural.

"The door is not going to stay here for all of eternity." The tip of an umbrella digs in back and shoves him forward, toward the Underworld.

* * *

To all the people who reviewed, I can tell one thing; y'all sweethearts. You made me think about things I did not consider before for the development of this story and actually made me write so much faster. That is really a good thing, because English happens to not be my first language and writing 1000 words in one sitting is normally impossible for me.

Fun fact: this chapter was supposed to be at most 4 000 words.

For those who noticed that I wrote a quite interesting first chapter for an adventure/fantasy story, don't worry. I like to surprise as much as I like to deliver the goods in the end.

What songs are you listening to these days? I listened to 'Where is my mind' by Safari Riots while I wrote this.

9/20/2018


	3. Unreal reality

Issei has seen the Harry Potter's movies a few years ago, when he still had friends. The concept interested him. Magic. Power. The struggles of a young boy who just wanted to live happily and freely, away from dangers of any sort. He remembers clearly the first scene with the old-looking Hogwarts Express on platform 9 3/4. It had looked so mysteriously perfect. White smoke buried the train as people waltzed their way through the masses, talking about fantastic creatures and which teacher was the best and which was the worst.

As he gazes at the train that will take him to the Underworld, Issei wonders if, perhaps, J.K. Rowling is not a Devil herself.

The train to the Underworld seems to be waiting for him, dressed in black and crimson, fumes spiraling around it as they would around the mouth of a dragon.

The platform is empty. Completely, terrifying empty.

Issei looks back. The door is still behind him. A dark, fluttering cloth is obstructing his view of the real (human) world. He shivers. It felt cold on his skin when he passed through it. Damp too, like an old kitchen cloth that is always wet because it washed one too many dishes.

What does he do now? He can't really go into that thing, can he?

His hand goes to his mouth. He opens his mouth and softly bites around his nail to get that annoying little string of skin that is half-attached to the edge of his thumb off. Blood seeps out. A jolt stops him before he attacks another finger.

 _Blood_. Devils must not obtain his blood.

He marches to the men's washroom. It bizarrely wears the same sign it would bear in the real world. He pushes the door open and peeks inside. No one. He runs to the sinks and let cold water washes the blood away. He thinks he was told once that cold water is supposed to tighten his skin. That should prevent anymore bleeding. Probably.

Issei sees his reflection in the mirror. It's biting its lips. His hands slap his face.

 _No. No. NO. Hyoudou Issei, are you really that effing stupid?_

He pushes his mouth close with both hands, pressing on his lips. He pushes back the scream. This is real. This is real. This is real. Please be real.

His entire being trembles. His soul quivers. Of course it's real. He was bleeding and he can control his movements. He can't make the fake Issei blink when he is dreaming.

Fear and excitement make a strange cocktail, he muses. He is too far gone. So far gone. He lets go of his lips with a snicker. He washes his hands with prickling soap. After another glance at his appearance, he adjusts his coat. With damp hands, he styles his hair into something that doesn't look made by an explosion. He can't look completely haggard for his first foray in the Underworld. He can't erase the deep circles that weight his eyes down. He cannot appear less of a twig with a quick fix. It will have to do nevertheless. Appearance is important. First impressions and all that smuch.

He sits down on a random bench, near the edge of the platform. The train is still there, still not moving. Something tells Issei he mustn't approach it yet.

After minutes Issei doesn't count, so occupied that he is in exerting all of his will to not bite or scratch the remaining skin on his fingers, a blur clouds the train's form. Heat hits Issei's face.

The real deal is here. There's no physical change, but Issei can feel the ground quakes under his feet. He can _feel_ something is different.

The trains' doors slide open.

"Train for the Underworld, Kuoh Station," a toneless voice calls.

Nobody gets off. Issei hesitates, but his feet still lead him to the edge of the platform. A part of his brain wonders about dangers, another whispers about death. His heart throbs in want. He has to know if his reality and his dreams are one and the same.

He doesn't look at the door to the Human world as he steps forwards. He can't back down. Luck and inexplicable dreams have given him a chance. He would be a fool to not grasp it with all he has. As long as he can survive this, it is worth it.

He blinks and he is suddenly inside. Nothing prepares him for the vision that welcomes him.

Blurry forms shift around him. He can see some people and he cannot perceive others. The hair on his nape stands.

The doors slide close behind him. He is in the belly of the monster.

The belly of the monster, Issei realizes as he looks around, appears to be like any other normal commute: it has semi-comfortable seats covered with fake velvet, grey plastic handles and stains of unknown origin on the floor. However, the windows show nothing but beams of blurry colors. Furthermore, some of the travelers are not what he would likely find in Tokyo's subway. Colorful hairstyles were trendy a few months ago, but tentacles and more than one set of eyes weren't.

Issei stops his blatant 'I'm-a-tourist' observations. He pats his standing hair down nonchalantly. 'Fake it until you make it'. He relaxes his shoulders and stands tall. Admittedly, he isn't tall at all. He belongs to the puny side.

He turns around slowly, searching for an open seat. There's one calling him, far in the back, free of company, weird stains or blurs.

Issei walks slowly, minding the blurs and long legs of his companions of commute. He doesn't look at anybody in the eyes. In brief, he looks like he is a tired guy minding his own business.

He sits downs and smiles contently. His seat is a very good one. It is in the far corner, nobody behind him and everybody in front of him. From under his lashes, he drinks the view before him. Blurs move, become clearer and then dissolve into a magma of nothingness his mind cannot compute. He catches the end of tails and the tip of black wings. The cycle repeats itself. These people don't look out of place there. Some are looking down at phones. Some make their wings flutter sporadically. Some play with the tip of their tails mindlessly. Some gaze blankly at nothing.

A real boring commute, if you're not human.

The human teen absently listens to the names of the stations they travel through. A familiar name rings through the train and suddenly, Issei remembers he has to get off eventually. He gets up quickly. People rumble and push back when he attempts to be a bit too quick in his haste to get out.

Issei jolts back and waits for his turn. He's been too comfortable. _Stay focused, stay real._ They can beat the shit out of tiny, powerless humans for breakfast. Issei excuses himself with an apologetic grimace and joins the line that is going out. Manners. Manners will make sure those people will not eat him. Manners will save him.

He lets a lady with green hair pass first when he is almost out. He can feel the warm wind outside. Her long tail sashays and slithers against his leg. She doesn't glance at him. She doesn't turn back in alarms and scream about a human on their devilish train. She doesn't care about him.

His heartbeat still drums against his sternum. He hops on the cement of the station.

The sun shines brightly. It blinds his eyes. Summer has not yet succumbed to autumn here.

Masses push him aside, until his back is against the train. He waits, but they make no movement to let him weasel his way out of the platform. Issei squeezes in, murmuring a litany of excuses as he tries to extract himself from the cluster. Like the man at the gate (gate officer? Toll guardian? Issei doesn't know how to address him) told him, peddlers circle every slow walkers, offering jewels (if they're not, then they are very big, shiny rocks) and special products their future clients absolutely need. Of course, they are the only ones in the entire city who can offer such things and their supply is limited.

Issei wouldn't be so impressed with them if the peddlers weren't flying. Their black bat wings flutter as they approach their next target.

A girl who looks younger than he is has locked her gaze on him. She offers an affable smile when their eyes meet. Her wings flutter and she is coming his way.

Issei feels his throat tightens. Appearance lies. He is not ready to be so close, to talk with a Devil, yet.

He turns around and inserts himself in a stream of people that seems to be get out of the station. After much close contact and awkward touches that made him replace his wallet in the inner pocket of his coat, he is out.

The sight that awaits him is familiar in the way a distant memory can be, resurfacing from time to time on the surface of one's consciousness. The entire city is drowning in red and gold. Fiery flowers adorn walls, golden green vines vein them and Issei can only admire with his mouth wide open. Knowing the lords of the territory as well as he does (not), that kind of magnificence is nothing. It's just the beginning of decadence.

A passerby jostles him aside, hard devilish shoulder against soft human chest. Issei gets out of his way with a bounce and remembers to close his mouth. He can't stay forever on the same spot.

He scans the streets around and chooses the busiest one. Less chance to be singled out there. Issei is not stupid enough to stray in lonely alleys and dark corners.

He passes under monumental archways. He caresses old stones. He roams between overflowing stalls. He sees people wearing all the shades of red and yellow. Women prefer slightly flowing dresses (Issei isn't sure what adjectives work best for them) and men wear pants and open shirts with complicated designs. Golden accessories shine wherever his gaze wanders.

He is glad he kept his coat on under the heat; he would have been an eyesore with his dirty shirt and torn pants. He sees a glimpse of himself in a mirror and blushes. His eyes are as wide as saucepans.

A new object attracts his attention and his embarrassment is forgotten. A mysterious spell makes him forget his blisters and split lips. He basks in the city's charm.

He takes in everything he sees. Elders pass him by, quicker than he is as he drowns in what reality offers to his eyes. He still can't believe nothing or nobody is screaming 'Human!' at the top of their lungs before skewering him. It is surreal.

His wandering leads him through what he thinks is the city's market. It is an open square, full to the brim with stalls and people. Issei tucks his coat closer, feels his wallet weighting his pocket down and lets a sigh out. He pursues his lips as he overviews the square. His hands itch. He wants to touch everything and _buy_ everything _._

"Fresh vegetables! Fresh vegetables just outta their soil!"

Issei eyes the veggies. They look horrendously yummy. Kind of like durian. He doesn't know if he will like it or even if he can digest it and, well, not die. He still wants to take it home.

His bank account tugs at his heartstrings and reminds him that he is poor.

Issei turns around. The train station is close by. He should go home before anything happens.

"The marriage between the Gremory and the Phenex is good news."

Issei blinks. He knows these names. One tastes like peach and the other smells like burning flesh.

A man snorts. "This is so old new, bro."

Issei, common sense blaring, decides to be utterly stupid. He hunches his shoulders and trails after the two talking Devils. His eyes are trained on the ground, minding his steps, and his ears are strained to hear whatever will come out of their mouth.

The first man, a middle aged man with a bald head, punches his partner. "Shut up. It's coming soon. We have to think how it will affect our clients."

"The result is simple. More money in their pockets, more in ours too." The other man, covered in bright pink clothes, is more interested in waving at every seller than the conversation they're having. Issei still follows them anyway.

"Good fire, sirs!" A loud voice interrupts the duo's conversation.

"Good fire, Alan!" The duo answers. They don't stop. Issei doesn't either.

The first man turns to his pink partner. "There are way more consequences, you stupid ass. Think about the no-taxes policy on pillows. My cousin-in-law is gonna be rich! Maybe we should expand to pillow business."

The pink man raises his hands and fans his partner. "Calm down, here. Let's stay in a business that we understand. Do you know why the guys over at Agares' like blocks of metal as pillows? Cuz I don't. And your cousin poured so much money in his business that if the Gremory backs up, he a dead man."

The duo Issei stalks marches through the market, owning the square with their presence alone. They literally stop everywhere and greet every seller as if they were old friends. "Ah, may your fire burns bright and strong, Joaquim. How is business?"

"May yours burn brighter. It's good enough for a Tuesday's afternoon." The seller answers amiably. Issei knows it's not afternoon back home. He shifts away, behind a stall selling teddy bears. Normal, except they're holding small weapons that look too sharp to be held by children.

"Good!" They say some more words Issei doesn't hear.

Bald man is back on tracks after a few more niceties. His pink partner bounces after him. "The Gremory has to follow through. They signed a contract. Saying things like 'they do not feel like it anymore' is not a good reason." Bald man claims loudly. A few heads nod to his words.

Issei feels torn.

 _What about peach girl's wants and desires? What about her life?_

 _What about the life of the people who will be affected by her desires?_ Another part of his mind shots back.

"Hey kid, what do you think of it?" Bald man calls.

Issei blinks. He searches for the poor kid they have put on the limelight. There's only him that is young enough to be called kid in the vicinity. He can't quite control his grimace when he looks back at them and they're staring. At. Him.

He scratches his nape and sort of laughs his desire to disappear in a hole away. "I'm new here. I don't really know much about all this." He must no lie, the thought flashes in his mind. They detect lies.

The taller, pinker man approaches him. "You seemed very interested in our conversation, New Blood."

Shame cannot redden his cheeks more. It's humanely impossible.

They noticed him then. -1000 points for Issei. His mind spins and stops on two words: New Blood. What is that?

"Sorry. I followed you around. That's a bit, no, completely creepy. I just wanted to learn more and… There's no excuse." He stumbles on his words. In the end, there's nothing to do but bow deeply. Eyes are observing the scene. Issei dips his head and imagines they're not there.

The bald devil appraises him. "It is as you say, New Blood."

Issei accepts the situation. He did act like a stalker, and a very poor one at that. Public shame is not the worst thing that could have befallen him. The faster he gets out of here, the better he will feel.

"There's a bookshop near the Southern gate. You should go there. The owner often helps guys like you." Baldy steps closer. His hoarse voice is almost covered by the noises of the market.

Issei looks up. He stays silent, not because he has nothing to say, but because his heart is in his throat. Do they know? What do they mean by 'guys like you'? Creeps? Humans? New Blood?

Bald man hums. He puts a hand on his shoulder and turns him around. Issei shrinks. He points forward. "You follow this road for 4 blocks then you turn right in the Golden alley. It's in the fourth building. Even if the door is closed, it's open."

Issei doesn't move. His knees don't move the way he wants them to. They tremble and shake. His heart is jumping all over the place in his chest. He breathes in.

Pink man shoos him. "Go."

Issei takes a step forward. His knees shake a bit then calm down. They ain't gonna eat him. He ain't gonna die. He ain't. He remembers to thank them at the last moment. He does so numbly. He isn't sure what is happening.

Pink man chuckles. Bald man waves his thanks away. "No need. May your fire burn, New Blood."

Issei nods one last time. They're watching him, maybe, he isn't sure. There are so many stalls and people that hide him from their view, yet… he listens to their words. He walks all the way to the Golden alley and turns right, just to be out of view.

The fourth building of the alley, as he discovers while he counts, is actually a quaint house. It looks ancient, yet homely beside the tall buildings. It has more personality, Issei muses. Two red banners, adorned by a stylized golden flower that twists and curves inside its canvas, frame the small door. Issei likes it. It's not as monumental or magnificent as the rest of the city, but it just feels right there. Like a dandelion amidst a sea of concrete. It breaks the monotony, if he can talk of monotony when all he has seen was beyond beautiful.

Issei walks to the wooden door. He hesitates on the threshold. The shine of the door knocker attracts his eyes. It's a small darkened fire.

"It's open, even if the door is closed," Issei repeats softly. He turns the handle and meets no resistance.

Against his expectations, the door doesn't creak sinisterly when he pushes it open.

However, he ends up looking at Hogwart's library. Issei steps back. The house is still small compared to the other buildings. He peeks inside. Yep, it is still way too big for such a small frame. Issei can see several stairs going up and down and diagonally. Books are stacked on tables and chairs. Books are, frankly, everywhere but the floor. A particular smell hit Issei's nose. Something that spells expensive and holy.

Issei doesn't even know if he is allowed to step inside. The two Devils must have wanted to fool him by sending him to a place which prices he simply cannot pay.

"Do come in, young friend," a voice calls from the innards of the library.

A snowy head peeks at him from a high ladder. The old man looks in his element, surrounded by ancient books with colorful leather jacket and beautiful lettering. If Issei were to compare, he would say the owner possesses the effortless air of grace that the old lady at the takoyaki's stall exudes.

Maybe it's an elders' thing. Issei's taken in anyway. He finds himself answering the owner's smile with a shy replica of it. He steps inside and closes the door behind him.

"Hello. Two men," Issei doesn't remember their name, if they offered it or not, and he doesn't know if that's important. He can't say a baldy and a pink neon sign in human form showed him the way, can he? "They told me to come here," he finishes lamely.

"You're a New Blood, child?"

"New Blood?" the boy echoes. He has heard it a dozen times already, but he still doesn't know what it means. Is it an insult? A way of saying 'weird people'? Humans? Do humans work in the Underworld?

The old man gently slips a book into a shelf. "Your master must have used the term 'Reincarnated Devil'. We old folks prefer the name 'New Blood'."

Issei relaxes. Okay, everything's good. They think he is one of them.

"My bad." The old man slides down the ladder with practiced ease. Issei's impressed. "I forgot my manners. I am named Bashir Mumtaka. May your soul burns forever."

"I'm Hyoudou Issei. May your soul burn forever?" His greeting sounds like a question and they both notice.

Brown eyes glance at him over the golden rims of thick glasses. "Your master is not from this territory, young one."

"No." Issei has no master. Tweaking the truth is not exactly lying, so it should be alright.

The shopkeeper beckons the boy closer. He cups his hands. "In these parts, you're supposed to cup your hands, as if you were holding fire, and answer: may your fire never be extinguished."

Issei stares at the cupped hands and try to replicate the gesture. "May your fire never be extinguished."

"Very good. That is the traditional greeting around these parts. Where is your master from?" The snowy bookseller smiles indulgently.

"Amon's," Issei offers weakly. That is a lie, he knows it. Will the bookseller notice?

"Oh… I believe their greeting is something about stars, is it not? Let me think for a second." The shopkeeper- _Mumtaka, his name is Mumtaka, Issei_. Mumtaka moves a heap of books from a worn-out chair. He gestures for Issei to sit. His gaze wanders around his kingdom before it lights up. "Ah- a star shines upon the hour of our meeting."

The chair Issei sits on is suddenly uncomfortable. "I… did not know that."

"You are in dear need of books, my young friend." Twinkles dance in the bookseller's eyes. There's no malice in his words.

Issei nods. That's why baldy and pinky sent him here, he realizes. He looks like a country bumpkin. He gives them a thumb up in his mind before turning it into a thumb down. The books here look and smell expensive. He has no money to scatter, even for the sake of his survival.

Money, he has not, but questions, he has plenty. "How did you know I was a New Blood?"

Mumtaka taps his nose. "I have a good nose, child."

That doesn't really answer Issei's question, but the teen is content anyway. The aroma of black tea tickles his nose.

"What is the name of the flower on your banner?"

"The Glorygold." The old man sighs as he points the ceiling with his chin. Issei looks up too and there is the flower that decorates the exterior of that not so small bookshop. When he finishes admiring the way it dances across the ceiling, never still even for a second, there's a cup full of aroma waiting for him on the table. He tries to not look too startled.

Mumtaka sits next to him with his own cup. "I often forget young folks can't remember it. It is extinct." He glances at the ceiling and perhaps at a memory of a forgotten flower.

"It's very pretty," Issei fills the silence.

"Indeed, it was. I saw one in my younger day, in the marquis' inner garden. It shone softly, like the king jewel on a crown. But our prime marquis didn't choose it for its prettiness, young lad. It could heal as well as Phoenix's tears. Shame the marquis couldn't keep them. My grandmother used to tell, when I was a spry chap not unlike you, that it was so abundant in olden times that even we simple folks could have some in our gardens." Mumtaka's voice drops into a hoarse, reverent whisper at the end.

Issei is enraptured by the smooth voice of the bookseller. He sips his tea to hide his trouble and realizes too late his body might reject a Devil drink rather violently.

"Why did it go extinct?" he clears his throat and asks. He quietly lets go of his tea cup and hopes for the best.

"Folly and envy. Some fools thought they could mass-grow such a fragile flower and when they failed, they destroyed it. The Civil War ended the brilliance of this territory as it did the light of our flower."

Issei bites down on his next question. He can't ask how the marquis' third son is doing. It's completely out of the blue and so out of character for a New Blood who is supposed to not know a thing about the territory he is in. Questions about Riser can and will wait.

"When did the Civil War end?" he finally decides to ask.

"I have the perfect book about the Civil War, if you wish to read." Mumtaka lets go of his teacup and reaches for a book next to him. He slides it on the polished table until it is in Issei's grasp.

"I-I wish to read and learn, but…" the auburn-haired teen stutters and stumbles until his voice itches and disappears. Finally, he lets the truth speak. He taps his empty pockets. "The price will be too high for me to pay."

"Even for knowledge?"

"Even for knowledge," Issei echoes softly.

Mumtaka sips his tea with a hum. His eyes, slightly bigger than a human's, flutter close. "The library is close by. The card costs a few kopeks. However, you do need your devil's registration."

His last comment gives Issei goosebumps. The boy finishes his tea in one gulp, risk be damned. He needs to appear calm. He needs to go. The bookseller knows things, he _knows_.

A wrinkly hand tips a silver teapot and refills Issei's cup. "Here, my young friend, people don't ask invasive questions."

Issei breathes in and unclenches his fists. Nobody has done anything against him yet. He can't go into panic mode everytime they say something that sounds dangerous to his ears. He will die of a panic attack before they even think about beating his sorry ass.

The human boy leans forwards and hopes he ain't fucking his life over. Better take action before his mouth develops momentarily paralysis again. "If, hypothetically, I didn't have a devil's registration, what should I do?"

"Oh, that would be wondrous. Not many can pass the eyes of the guardians of the gates." Issei doesn't understand that comment and he has _too many questions_. Bashir Mumtaka continues slowly, watching his guest like a hawk as he speaks. "I would suggest to that person to get a fake one as soon as possible, if he or she cannot get a real one. Servants-Masters relationships can be complicated, but to roam in the Underworld, one must have gone through the highs and lows of official bureaucracy. It is the law." Bashir Mumtaka smiles good-naturally, as if he weren't hinting at breaking that very law.

Issei chooses his words carefully. He moistens his dry lips with a flick of his tongue. "What if I couldn't get a real one... How could I get a fake one?"

Bashir takes his time to answer that question. In the end, he hums. "For that, my friend, you would need the right connections and money."

Issei smacks his lips. It all comes down to money in the end. He has to make some good amount in the shortest time possible. He glances at Mumtaka. No. He will make his money in the Human world. He can't stay any longer. He ain't from there and someone's waiting for him upstairs.

Issei opens his mouth for the next questions but never voices it. Invasive questions are avoided here and so is being Captain Obvious. Asking if the right connection is in front of him would sound stupid.

In lieu, the teen asks his other pressing question.

"Could you lend me your books?" Issei is hopeful in his pessimism.

"No." That's the answer the boy knew was coming.

The young Hyoudou gets up. He drains his second cup of tea and feels all warm again. "Thank you for teaching me how to greet people. And for the tea. I gotta go." Well, he couldn't have worded it more awkwardly.

"Young Hyoudou," Mumtaka calls before Issei has the time to put a foot outside. He has a book in his hands. "Sell this."

Issei glances at the door, at his watch, and then at his host.

"If you sell it, I might be more inclined to let you read my books."

Issei is quick to come back and grab the book. The cover is, in one word, tacky. A young girl, wearing clothes that would make her the goddess of otakus' circles, grins as she wields a scepter. Her name floats in Issei's mind. An icy name for a fiery soul. _Leviathan._

Issei turns the book around. It is a children book, some sort of manga, about a heroine who kicks monsters' asses and eats villains for breakfast. It is at least what the back cover tells him.

He looks up with a grimace. Really?

The raised eyebrow of Mumtaka answers 'Really.'.

"Ok. I'll do it." He has already grabbed the book anyway. Now he just needs to find a buyer.

The snowy-haired bookseller watches him go with a smile. He offers neither hints nor help. Issei is fine with that.

He is out on the busiest street that leads to the market too fast.

"Do you want a book?"

The man Issei accosted doesn't even glance at him but walks faster. Issei repeats his question louder. People walk past him.

Issei stands in the middle of sidewalk with his book held high in the air until he remembers it is impolite to block people's way. He scuttles away under amused glances. He feels his cheeks heat up. He bites the inside of his cheek and looks down. His shoes are dirty. And he feels incredibly stupid.

He is not gonna sell like that. He can't approach his clients like a normal peddler. First, he ain't one. People have eyes (sometimes multiple sets) and they can see he doesn't look like the right shit. Second, he ain't making the product looks good, standing with his legs spread and arms open. He looks like a scarecrow. These things don't sell, they scare. Bad approach. Third… Issei doesn't know the third point yet. He gently turns the book in hands. He flips a few pages. Colorful drawings, not many words, not too complicated either.

This is a children book. He can't sell it to men (otakus are not that easy to find and inside that sub-specie, rarer are those who like this kind of book). He can sell it to mothers. He can sell it to kids.

Kids. Issei pictures someone younger than him. Those are easy to talk to. They don't scheme complicated backstabbing. Their power is less refined than adults too. They will not notice he might be a weird person.

So now he has chosen his audience. Now, the real question is how he will approach them. And where he will find them.

He approaches a woman waddling her way to the market, a sleeping baby strapped to her chest. He offers his best smile. "Excuse me, is there any playground around here?"

"Playground? You won't find one inside the old district." She is already leaving him behind, content with the answer she gave him. Issei is not.

"Ahhhh." Issei scratches his head meekly. "I'm new here and… I don't know where the other kids are."

He hopes he looks as pitiful as he sounds.

He did, because the woman stops on her tracks and sighs. "If you follow the Golden Alley, which is just there, you'll find a giant chess game. At this hour, a few kids should be there. Now, off you go, boy." She shoos him away before skipping away, hand patting the round head of her snoozing babe.

Issei follows her instruction and does end up in a small square divided in 4 quarters. One is dedicated to chess, as its checkered ground suggests. The children she claimed would be there stood her up. They are gathered on another quarter, forming a circle.

Issei wipes his hands against his pants and approaches the circle. There are all far younger than him. The oldest ones must be no older than 10. The kids don't reject him outright when he steps in their circle, which is good. It gotta be. He glances at the ground. It's is not a chess game. Two youths seem to be playing a game while all the others observe.

One of the players is staring at him, all moody eyes and pouty mouth. In a moment of clarity, Issei considers the fact that he has not given his name nor offered any greetings. He cups his hands like Mr. Mumtaka showed him.

The pouty mouth disappears into a blank expression. The kid offers a nod and a slightly cupped hand in return. He turns back to his adversary.

Issei watches the game and honestly doesn't understand a thing.

The ground is painted like a giant game's board, with small and tall spikes painted in red and white. The kids are moving red and black checkers from one spike to the other, following the curt orders of the two players. One boy is in charge of rolling two dices as big as his head.

Issei doesn't know what's going on nor understand the goal of the game.

Anyway, he watches and makes the right sounds along the other children, booing or huffing. He even joins the boys who move the checkers with their feet.

One of his comrades in moving checkers raises his hand and blocks the way without shame. "Boys, hey, hey, don't move that checker. That's not a good idea, boss. With that move, the blacks are gonna get one more checker out," the kid complains loudly. He tramples on the checker at his feet.

Oh. So they have to get the checkers out. Issei observe a bit more as he moves a red checker to the peak of another spike. They seem to have to move them around in a pattern.

'Pouty Boss' shrugs. "That's okay."

The loud boy crosses his arms. "Boss, listen to me here."

The red team sighs in unison. The black team rumbles in annoyance. "Can't we just play?" someone grumbles.

The leader of the blacks waves his hands. Both teams leave the board and the bickering duo behind. Issei trails behind them. He smiles amiably even as their conversation becomes a bit more subdued upon his arrival in their inner circle. He cups his hands. Several kids cup their hands back.

"Who are you?" A small, cute wisp of a boy approaches him decisively and asks. His chubby cheeks call for teasing and pulling. He can't be over 6 years old.

"Issei. I'm new here. May your soul burns forever."

The leader of the black team nods. "May your fire never be extinguished, Issei. I'm-"

Issei doesn't hear his name. The teams now talk too loudly for him to hear the boy's whisper. He nods anyway. The greeting that had sounded normal and right in Mr. Mumtaka's mouth sounds awkward in the youth's mouth, he thinks absently.

The voices around him hit his eardrums with a subject he knows. They're talking happily about their game (my team is totally going to win!) and the last episode of Levia-tan.

 _Levia-tan. Leviathan._

Issei seizes his chance. "I didn't see it. What happened?"

Kids gasp. The red leader turns away from his bickering partner and hollers. "You haven't seen it? Where do you live, under a rock?"

"Seba." The black leader steps up and tries to chide him softly. He is drown out by the others' voice.

"Levia-tan kicked Vampiru's ass," the first kid who approached Issei answers animatedly. He makes wide gestures with his hands and hits quite a few guys. The others avoid him the best they can.

"She always kicks ass," another boy quips.

"Yes, but she kicked Vampiru's ass before. She had to cultivate during 3 months to be able to finish him off." Cute boy is back to gesturing wildly, this time with sound effects.

"That was, like, 10 minutes of the entire episode. Cultivation doesn't need more than 2 minutes normally." The leader of the red team ruffles cutie's hair and nods seriously.

"That was a great episode. Levia-tan looked cute."

"Have you ever seen her not being cute?" Issei quips and people laugh at their own silliness.

"Why didn't you watch it?" Cutie tugs his hands familiarly. Issei does his best to not slap him away. That boy gave him exactly what he wanted. He can't blame them for being far more physical than his people back home.

"I was reading this really good book. It's about Levia-tan's adventures in the Fallen territory." Issei shows the cover of his book.

"She goes to the Crow's?" The boys gasp in unison.

"Yes." Issei grins. The bait has been bitten.

"She never goes there in the show," Cutie whispers. His hands are going up to the comic, fingers twitching.

"That's because the book is ahead of the show," Issei drops his bomb. He sneakily opens the book to a fight scene where the protagonist is kicking a Crow's ass.

Silence. Only the dice boy continues to excitedly spin his toys, oblivious to the rest of the world.

"What?" Red leader, aka pouty boss, seems at loss. Cutie's hands are almost grazing the plasticized pages with his reverent fingertips. He is whispering the dialogues, pupils so large they take over his iris. Comics are a drug here, it seems.

The human teen can see their interest is swelling.

"You didn't know?" Issei asks as innocently as he can manage to, eyebrows raised and eyes clear.

Their stunned silence is the only answer he needs. He tempts them with a flick of his wrist, fluttering the pages open and close. They see a storm of neon colors and awesome fights and they are beyond bought.

"I can show you this really nice bookshop. It has all the new books about Levia-tan's adventures. And it's cheap." The price of that book seems cheap (Issei honestly doesn't know if 3 Golds is a lot or nothing, but he bets on the second option.), so it should be the same for the rest. Technically, he is not lying.

His last comment conquers the strongest wills and the tightest wallets.

"Show me." The kid who appears to be in charge, the one that laughed at him one moment ago, Pouty Boss, has put his hand on his shoulder familiarly. Issei smiles until his cheeks hurt and then some more. He asks more questions about Levia-tan's last episode as he guides his group of future buyers into the book den.

Bashir smiles when he sees him at the back of the awed group of boys. The boys look cautiously at the heaps of books and discreetly try to scrap the dirt off their shoes after passing the threshold. "Welcome, young friends. May your fire burns forever."

"May your fire never be extinguished," they answer tamely.

Issei can feel they are impressed by the bookshop. He feels strangely proud.

Bashir steers them to the children's section where all the awesome books with almost no text or dialogues are. They immediately forget to act bashful and their field day begins. Even better, Bashir offers them cookies with juice. In exchange, he asks they do not dirty his books and they hastily promise the Moon and more for the chocolate chips delicacies.

The old Devil then waltzes to Issei's side. "I asked you to sell one book, not my entire stock of children books."

"Sorry," Issei offers, unapologetic. His chest feels light. His shoulders, for once, aren't hunched. He did something good today.

Bashir laughs. "All is good, friend. You simply went over my expectations."

Issei sighs. Warmth circulates from his heart to the rest of his body.

Bashir leaves his side to disappear behind a counter. He comes back with a stack of fearsomely bulky books. He slides it on the sparkling wooden counter toward Issei. "Here is your reward. I believe I don't have to tell you to bring them back in pristine form."

"No, sir."

"Good." Bashir eyes him one last time before he hands him a wool bag with the emblem of his store on the sides. Afterwards, his attention is taken away by his little clients.

"Did you know that we also have some limited edition of Moon Moon?"

Issei observes them for a moment. The ever graceful bookkeeper and a group of misfits ready for mischief and a good amount of reading. It fits, somehow.

Then, he grips the bag's handles. The weight of it surprises him. He doesn't comment on the kindness he hasn't begged for. He tucks the bag in his arms.

Issei glances at his phone's screen. The time it shows makes his heart jump. He is late. So, so late.

He nods at the bookseller, doesn't stay long enough to see if he noticed his departure and leaves. The door closes silently behind him.

The sun has disappeared. The humidity clings to his clothes and lets the cold seeps in. His coat doesn't hold his body warmth in. Issei walks faster. He arrives to the train station only after asking for directions twice. What a thing to proud of. He needs to be better. He needs to use his brain.

People linger lazily on the platform, far fewer than they were this afternoon. The peddlers are not here anymore.

Issei searches where he needs to pay inside the train station. There is no old man with a pink umbrella. There's only a machine everybody goes to, payment in hand. It looks like one he could find in the human world. It doesn't have the same charm.

Issei pushes a 1 yen inside it when it is his turn. He gets a ticket. He is lucky (he has been way too lucky today, he is going to wake up, this is way too good to be real, something has to go south) for the train comes by a few minutes after his arrival.

He finds a nice seat, the same he sat on before. Destinations flash before his eyes. People come in and many get out. Istanbul, Paris, Ottawa, all kinds of foreign names he doesn't know. They make him feel skittish. He is so faraway and yet so close.

Finally, the name of his town, Kuoh, lights up on the map glued to the wall of the train. He is the only one getting off there.

Issei only hesitates a second in front of the tall gate and its floating black cloth before he passes through the dark void. He shakes off his stupid thoughts and regrets. He has places to be. He can't stay between his two worlds forever. It is as cold as he remembered it to be outside.

The electric lights are turned on on this side. The night is close to its end. Yet, the old man with the pink umbrella still remains at his post, eternal vigil of the gate. Issei looks at him. He doesn't seem to have moved. He stays on his rotten bench, alone in the cold. Issei tucks his coat closer and shivers.

Curiosity and the thought that this man isn't as simple as he looks make him open his big mouth.

"Sir," Issei calls and he wonders too late, if maybe, the guardian is sleeping. His head moves and Issei's question is answered. "Sorry to disturb you, can I ask you a question?"

"You already did, young one."

Issei rubs his eyes. Stupid tired mind. He chuckles. "Ah, yes. What is the greeting the people of your territory use?"

"May your mind always be keen," The old man's voice rumbles.

"May your mind always be keen," Issei repeats.

"No, young one. You're supposed to answer: and may your hands be ready." The old man taps his umbrella against the ground.

"And may your hands be ready," Issei echoes obediently.

The old man nods, satisfied.

"How do people greet in your territory?" The old man asks. His eyes reflect the electric lights.

Issei knows that one. Thank you so much, Bashir. "A stars shines upon the hour of our meeting."

The old man looks up. "They do, young one. They do."

Issei sees no stars, but he says nothing. Stars shine always, whether humans obstruct their light or not with pollution.

The young teen takes the silence that has settled over them as a sign to leave.

"Thank you for everything." Issei bows and his knees flinch, bag of books stopping the blood flow in his arm. He hoists the bag higher on his shoulder.

The little human walks away. Glassy eyes follow his form until he disappears around a corner.

Issei avoids the pools of light that flood the sidewalk. He numbly checks his phone. The missed calls are all from his worried neighbor. In her last call, before midnight, she informs him that she will shelter his mother for the night and call the police if he is not home by daybreak. She hopes he is well and doing nothing he will regret later.

He unglues the phone from his ear at that moment. He deletes the message before it turns into another lecture about his future and lost potential.

He is back home too fast for his liking. The calm of his city was a balm to his soul after the frenzy he felt in the Underworld. He is back in one piece and he has more than whatever he thought he could've gotten on this trip. Things are starting to align themselves in his mind. It feels nice to have a working brain.

He unlocks the door and gets inside his apartment. It smells stuffy in there. Issei walks in the darkness. He bumps against nothing. He can't bump against something when there's nothing on his way. The floor creaks under his weight. The boy turns on his light stand. He careful places his bag of books on the bed. He throws his clothes around carelessly.

Issei settles on the bed and snuggles under his blanket. It's as uncomfortable as it was this morning. He stares at the ceiling. He puts his hands over his eyes. It's blessed cold against his boiling brain.

A laugh escapes his soul.

It is real. Everything is real. He is not insane.

His other hand reaches for the bag. He sits up and opens it. Each title looks mysterious. Each title is tantalizing. Finally, he settles on 'Etiquette of the Underworld'. Manners will save him. Manners will give friends. Manners might… Issei doesn't dare to finish that thought. It is there, under his skin, a rumbling hope under all the despair and numbness.

Issei uses all that he feels as a fertilizer for that budding hope.

It keeps his eyes open and his hands ready to flip pages. He has some studying to do.

The day breaks the darkness in the distance.

* * *

I was thinking about bankruptcy today. It made me sad. I can't believe that Rias' decision to break her marriage contract had no consequences whatsoever besides her fiancé being angry. In the adult world (thus the Underworld too), any decisions have consequences, bad and good.

In olden times, marriage between two nobles involved more than just a stronger link between the two houses. Furthermore, honor demanded promises be followed through.

Have you noticed how Issei address most people? Never by their name. By their profession or by what they look like (and even then, it is vague). Dear Issei seems quite detached, ne? Or he could simply be forgetful and thus not remember people's name.

Also, the 'May stars shine upon the hour of our meeting' is the property of J.R.R. Tolkien. It sounded too cool for me to resist using it. And my imagination has its limits. Could you help me think about nice greetings for other devils/angels/fallens?

This author takes her leave before she becomes too shameless and asks for feedback!


	4. Unhealthy reality

Sunday comes in the Human World.

In a tiny apartment, a son stands by his mother's sides as her life, carefully tucked inside a few carton boxes, is taken away by a man and a woman in white clothes. They smile dutifully, gentle as they can be in their task. They're tearing a family apart.

Reason tells Issei they're not, not really. He can visit. He can see her every day. He can camp outside the damn hospital if he wants to. Reason has never been his strong suit. He keeps the hurt inside and the smiling eyes outside. If they're full of unshed tears, he can blame a speck of dust, can't he?

"Mom, we need to go." He takes her hand in his and guides her toward the ambulance. She lets him lead, walking backward to stare at her kingdom. She might feel this is the last time she will ever see it. Issei blows white puffs in the morning sun and holds her hand closer.

"Issei, are we going for a walk in the park?" She asks, tugging on his hand like a small child. There's a trace of a smile surfacing.

Issei adjusts her tuque gently so it covers the tip of her ears. A strand of her hair wraps itself around his pinky and stays glued to his hand as he steps back. "No."

"Ohhh." Issei doesn't know if she makes that sound to show she understands or because the ambulance awes her. She likes white these days.

The man in white (Issei hasn't bothered to learn his name) opens the back door and small stairs appear. Issei holds his mother close as they make their way up inside.

"Issei, this place is so white!" She is delighted.

Issei smiles and eyes the mini hospital around him. It is indeed white, but it does not delight him. He helps her into the hard bed of the ambulance. She jolts on it and suddenly, she is not happy anymore.

"Where are we going, dear?" She is looking at him in that special way that makes his hands sweaty and his breath shallow for he is not his father.

Issei lets go of her hand. He wipes his own against his pants. "The hospital, mom."

"Why?" She suddenly reaches for his hands and grasps it tightly. She scans him from toes to the tip of his standing hair. "Do you need a checkup? Are you sick? Dear, if you are, you need to lie down. Come, come." She is already fighting with her white blanket, kicking around to get up and give him her seat.

Issei chokes on words. Metal walls are closing on him. The man in white appears in the cramped space they fill and tries to calm her down. "Ma'am, we're going to the hospital. Don't kick the bed around." He says, voice deep, rumbling and meant to soothe. He is talking as if he were speaking to a child throwing a tantrum.

"Don't you understand? My child is sick, he needs the bed, not me!"

The man throws him a pointed glance. "He is alright, ma'am." He reaches for her blanket and tucks her foot that wriggled outside back in the warmth. The movement is smooth and looks practiced, like his voice. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

She frowns. She looks to her son. Issei gulps whatever he might have wanted to say down. He shows his teeth and hopes it looks like a grin. "I'm fine, mom."

"You look pale. Come here." She beckons him closer, waving her bony hand. He edges closer and bends down to let her feel his forehead.

"You're not hot." She seems almost sad that she cannot tuck him on the bed and engulf him in at least fifty blankets, as if he were an oversized baby.

He chuckles and puffs air on her face mischievously. "See. I'm fine."

She hums. The man in white shifts in the background. They need to get going.

"Get the car going." Issei says softly. He rights himself up.

His mother pats the bed and shifts to the edge. "Issei, come, come, sit with me."

"Ma'am, he can't sit with you. The bed's too small. He is going to fall off," the man in white interrupts her.

She holds his hand and does not let go.

"He can't go with us, madam." The man in white explains.

Issei can see she won't accept anything but her reality as an answer. "Mom, I'm gonna follow you with the bus. I'll arrive just a few minutes after you, okay?"

"Yes, you do that. But where are they taking me?" Her eyes are clear when she looks up at him and Issei is thrown off. She is lucid in her insanity.

He doesn't sigh. "The hospital, mom. I told you."

"You did? Oh. I must have forgotten, then. When will I come back home?"

"Soon." There's that thought that floats around his mind, forever surfacing when he sees his mother. Their solution resides in the Underworld. The man in white bends his neck as he sits and shots him a look. Issei recognizes pity and looks away. They need none. Pity is only welcome if it can actually move people and make they do useful things. Otherwise, there's no point.

He reaches for her shoulders. They're bony and hard under his hands. Her grey coat pools around and Issei remembers a time where it once was too small. His hug is awkward and short. They're both all hard limbs and no softness.

Issei is out a few seconds later. She is staring at him with clear eyes and worried hands when the man in white closes the door. Issei waves them goodbye until the ambulance has smoothly left their small street. The boy lowers his hand slowly. This is not goodbye. It is not.

He does as he promised and takes the bus to follow her. He will be more than a few minutes late, but it's not too bad. He has more time to think, more time to prepare himself.

He couldn't picture her in a hospital's bed before today. He abhors the thought. Hospitals are for the sick and the dying. He knows in what category people think she is. Issei breathes in. He has to stay calm when he sees her. She must not know he hates it; otherwise she will hate it too without knowing why, like a child who mimics their parents.

He needs to smile and be poppy. No cry and kill somebody in white (doctors are important members of society, Issei. You can't kill one every time they tell you your mother is never coming back. There will be no more by the time you are done and you'll cry the day you need one.) It's going to be exhausting.

He goes and does it anyway.

The bus trudges through the city. People wear mittens and hats and shiver in the cold all the same. Issei shoves his hands in his pockets and lets them there. He has no mittens to keep his fingers from turning blue. Inwardly, everybody is moaning against the bad weather, but no sounds escape their lips. No one ever speaks in the bus, except close friends.

School and work keep them away from the bus on such an early hour. Issei sits back and counts the stops until the town's hospital.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Zero.

Issei gets out with a rather large crowd. He is in the midst of doctors, nurses and sick people. They walk together to the big entrance of the hospital. It is one of the biggest buildings in the town. It has everything the town needs, from palliative to maternity ward. His mother is in the former.

He makes a stop at the desk to know her room's number. The secretary takes her sweet time. Issei waits. With her drawn features, she looks like it's midnight and not early in the morning. She informs him with a sigh of the hours in which he can visit.

Issei thanks her. She doesn't hear, attention already taken by another visitor.

Issei walks quickly, bypassing smiling people and sullen ones with his eyes staring at his shoes. He feels like a peeper when he catches people's joy and miseries. A rock weights his stomach down when he hears a cry. After interminable white asepticized hallways that smell like medicine, he is the in the palliative ward.

He breathes in and regrets it. The taste of medicine is on his tongue.

He finds her room around too many turns and twists. Her door is slightly ajar. He takes a moment to disentangles his hair with his hands. Painfully. He chews his tongues. He numbs his heart for the questions she is bound to ask again and again, seemingly listening and then asking in the same words what she is doing there, if he is sick and how long will her stay last.

He pushes the door open.

She is sleeping. Issei releases the breath he didn't know he was holding. A nurse is fussing over the drip that goes deep into his mother's arm and highlights her green vein.

Issei counts silently the drops that are slowly making their way down, to his mother's arm and into her blue vein under her pallid skin. Is it a painkiller? Sleeping drugs? Is it strong?

"What is this?" He asks.

The nurse is startled by his voice. She looks him over and frowns. "I'm her son." Issei says. As if he had to explain his presence.

"Oh, hello dear. It is fluid replacement. Your mother did not hydrate herself enough before coming here." She fusses a moment more over his mother's arm before she takes a stool out. "Sit here, dear. No need to stay on the doorstep."

Issei does as she says.

The boy stares at Hyoudou Hikari's face. She is pale. He can't hear her breath.

They are probably going to shave the thin tufts of black hair that still fight the sickness soon. His teeth graze his lips before he reigns himself in. He chews on them once, twice and then stops. His habit must not control him.

"I see." Issei croaks something out to fill the silence in a strained voice. Nobody answers him. He glances up. The nurse is gone. She had other things to do, Issei supposes. That's not bad. He doesn't want to show the warm liquid that runs down his cheeks to anybody.

He sniffs back tears and snot.

"I'm going to get you of here."

He means every word. What is the use of love, if it cannot help her?

He leaves once he feels he won't crumble.

He is back home after a long half-hour in the bus. It was stuffier and livelier than during his first ride. People are getting out of their den to eat out. Eating make people happy, eh.

He is not hungry. There's nothing in the fridge. A twinge twists his guts. There's nothing in the fridge, Issei.

The boy marches to his room. There's no reason to stay in the living room. There's nobody there anymore. He plays with the bandages he took when he passed by the drug store inside the hospital. They're long bandages he can cut and wrap tightly around his digits. He takes his scissors out and snips them.

His first attempts are ragged and useless. He discards them on the floor.

Finally, Issei bandages his hands.

First, he used cheap bandaids that never stayed for long around his wrecked fingers. It was not cost efficient.

He is going to look absolutely crazy, one of these guys who live in their own wonderland, but it will keep his teeth from the horrors he calls fingers. He fucked them up. Now he has to let them heal. His jaw is voracious and his mind calms down when he tastes blood. He must find another way to calm the fuck down. They (people from the Underworld) cannot have his blood. They cannot.

Terrible things, things he cannot see nor hear but who thrum under his skin, will happen if a malicious soul obtains his blood.

Once his fingers look like pristine little eskimos, he falls on his back. His bed still smells like a prepubescent boy sweat one too many times in there. Which is true.

He snorts.

The ticking of his watch reminds him of the time. He closes his eyes.

Time to study.

He gets up and reaches for his nightstand. There, tucked away, lie his books and notes. He has a book on manners, one on basic geography and history, another on the hierarchy that rules the Underworld and one on Amon's territory and its people. Bashir had been thoughtful beyond Issei's most foolish expectations. He unlocks the nightstand drawer and reaches blindly for a pen.

He jots his visions and dreams down on a forgotten notebook he had used to complete his math assignments. He tore the used pages out a few days ago and started writing jumpy sentences and messy thoughts.

His dreams do not plague his every sleeping and waking hour anymore. They still come and go, like never-ending waves rolling on a beach and seeping through the sand and rocks, and leave him aching for things that aren't. However, Issei doesn't hate them as much anymore. His energy is bent on other projects.

His notebooks are not very organized (random words fill the margin and red circles and blue splashes highlight certain words) and every time he looks at them in the morning, he adds arrows to connect his thoughts and more details under mysterious things he hadn't been bothered to explain properly the first time he wrote them down. After a few mornings, he hadn't been able to simply close his notebooks without at least make one attempt at making his notes clearer. He lost precious time before when he was searching for a piece of information he knew he had written but couldn't remember properly. In the end, he squinted at his scribbles and made a big, simple diagram out of it.

It's incomplete and lacking, but it has been so long since he has really been concentrated on something that actually demands brain power that he sighs and accepts it. He will make better, more exhaustive versions in the future, he swears.

He scribed in big, red letters on the first page that he had to update his poor drawing at least once every week.

After that special task, he passes his time reading. His guts twist and curl, but he is in a far away land. He has already devoured the books Bashir lent him. He keeps on re-reading them, committing all he can remember to his memory. He knows they are not his books and he will have to give them back eventually. He went on a hunt in the apartment and found another half-used notebook. This one, he labeled it ' _Manners and other important stuff about the Underworld that will keep me alive_ '. With such a lovely long name, Issei is sure he will not forget to fill it to the brim.

From his book on the surface of Etiquettes, for it can only be the surface as the Underworld is enormous and full of life, he learns that this world seems stuck between the Middle Ages and now. Issei is no expert in History and he knows his small pool of knowledge is probably full of misconceptions and lies, but it is what he thinks.

Territories rely on marriages between nobles to tie them together. Seniority and age of Blood rule over laws. Magic holds all together. Science is an after-thought, an addition. The meritocracy system that has been implemented by the new Maous to help the Underworld flourish when they took over is half-heartedly working. The hierarchy is strong and still ruling over the place. If, say, the number one of the Rating Game was a New Blood, he would still have to bow deep and low to any Noble with a drop of Ancient Blood, even if that Noble was a Low-level Devil.

Good thing that nobody that is important in the Underworld seems to be from the low and dirty masses.

And the Devils have several strange sets of rules.

They are rigid and difficult to remember. If Issei were to face a High Noble, he would have to bow according to their rank. The deeper the bow, the more important the person in front of him is. If he were to face the Maous, his teeth would have to touch the ground.

And then, there's the greeting. Gosh, the greetings. They change according to ranks and according from the place his interlocutors are from.

And since he is unimportant and weak, nobody has to answer is greetings. They can treat as if he were made of air.

Basically, Issei has to lick boots and asses.

The idea does not sit well with him. Treating others with respect is the most basic thing to do. Treating as if they were the gods of his world is not.

The Underworld doesn't judge people based on the color of their skin but on the novelty or age of their blood. Changes are not always good. Changes can be wrong and painful. But this, Issei cannot really understand why it has not changed.

Issei bites his fingers through the newly added bandages. The taste of fabric is bitter in his mouth. He spits and eyes his digits regretfully. At least no blood is leaking.

He is judging what he knows not. He judges what he reads. Perhaps the Underworld is different from both what the books and his dreams tell him. Perhaps he is darkening reality. Perhaps he is whitening it.

He still latches on the idea that the Underworld is not and has never been perfect. He has to remember the Underworld is not some kind of Wonderland. It's a dangerous place. He cannot prance around with bloody fingers, half-baked plans and the hope that a Bashir Mumtaka is waiting and watching out for New Bloods or misplaced country bumpkins on every corner. He is acting as if poking a sleeping dragon will not result in him being devoured in one small gulp.

He needs to be prepared in case things take a turn for the worse. How, he does not know yet, but he will figure that somehow. How one does becomes more intelligent? By not being stupid. He must not be stupid. Easy, peasy.

He flips the book on Manners open when he is sure his blood is not going to do a sneaky on him and pass through the bandages. He goes to his favorite greeting to date.

It is the simplest he has discovered and Issei loves it. The Agares have such a way with words.

If a people from Agare's were to meet an enemy, they would convey their contempt by calling that person by his or her full name. It means to express the fact that in the ballroom they are in, they wish the other person could actually be not on the other side of the room, but on the other dark side of the city where they could easily be stabbed.

Disappear from my sight, excrement.

On the other side, Agare's people show affection by being overly familiar.

If Issei were to really like a person from the Agare's territory, he could simply scream 'Isn't that my fav' asshole!'. Obsequious manners are reserved for strangers and enemies. Vulgarity and over familiarity is a sign of friendship. Basically, if they call you dipshit, you're in for life.

Simple. Efficient. Clear. Beautiful. Issei could get behind that. He had never in his short life called anybody 'Asshole', regardless of the urge to do so. He went as far as poopyhead a few years ago. He imagines himself going around Agare's territory and calling his favorite people names… He laughs. It is maybe time to stop being a good little boy.

Now is his time to shine.

Besides his precious studying, Issei goes to work.

He has had no shifts with the Filipina woman since that summer afternoon. Shame and wonder twist his guts when he thinks about her bowed neck. The thought that he, lanky limbs and weak heart, could have done something muddles his mind. The boy who hunches his head and stays silent is still present at work, but another, who is fed up and violent and knows right from wrong is silently preparing his take over.

Issei does not think the coward will put much of a fight. He, too, is fed up with himself.

Something holds him back and quenches his anger as much as it nourishes it. He has a volcano in his guts. Yet, he needs money.

He slides things slowly on shelves as he thinks. He needs to find another job. Something with a better pay. Difficult to find, it will be. He is too young. Or what he will find will be downright illegal. He is already dipping a foot inside that kind of stuff, but his mind is stubborn and reticent when he thinks about going all in.

The door to the backroom opens.

Issei glances behind him. His boss is here. The door is slammed shut.

The employee nods up at the employer and then goes back to his job.

Cold sweat runs down his back and it has nothing to do with the fact that he pushing boxes half his weight around. His boss is behind him. He hasn't moved since he entered the room. Issei can see his shadow overlaps over his own. The man is standing still, breathing loudly in the silence that stands between them. Issei lowers his head and jots down the new location for the spicy candies. His shoulders coil and ache.

"Hyoudou. I heard that your mother's in the hospital." His boss finally says.

Issei turns and nods wordlessly. That is not a subject he wants broach with that man.

His boss stares him down. His lips disappear into a thin line. Issei feels he has done something wrong, but he cannot admit his wrongdoings when he doesn't know if they even exist.

He points his chin towards Issei. "It's a good thing that you took care of that."

"Of what?" Issei blinks.

"Your fingers." His boss glances pointedly at Issei's hands. Issei tries not to wriggle his eskimos around. They are tender. He grasps his T-shirt and hopes that strange conversation ends soon so he can finish what he is doing and leave. "That wasn't a very good habit. You looked like a bloody mess."

"Yeah." Issei adds nothing more. What perfunctory things can he add, anyway?

"It must be hard, living all on your own. Life costs a lot. It used to be cheaper live here, but housing went through the roof these past years." His boss is almost blabbing and it's surreal. Kindness must not be an easy feat for him, Issei decides. "And food! Food used to be so much better and cheaper. Now I can't get a good meal out without spending a small fortune. My wife cut my allowance in half last time I went overboard with the team…"

Oh, he has a wife. Issei didn't know that.

His boss clears his throat. "Anyway. If you really need money, I know a guy. He pays good money for young guys like you." The man is not staring at him in the eyes. He is staring slightly off way, somewhere over his eyebrow, but not high enough for it to be obvious.

Issei sees it because he's staring fixedly at his boss. Is he… is he talking about compensated dating? His boss links his hands between his back slowly, in a polished move. His left eyebrow twitches and jolts.

"You could still work here too. He would only need you in the evening. I could give you your morning off, though, because you know… it's hard work and it can end pretty late. You know. But it's well paid. Really well paid."

Issei's guts curl and something acid floods his mouth.

It's unbearable. The boy gulps it down.

"I'll… think about it." No, no. Never.

"Well," his boss shifts closer and Issei shrinks, "tell me if you want his number." He whispers.

Issei thinks he nodded when his boos finished speaking. He thinks he might even have offered a smile afterwards like the fucking pushover he is.

His boss makes himself scarce a moment later. Issei slides the last mocha candies bag on the shelf. It's a good thing that there's no more. He would have had to make more space around it otherwise, and there's none to make anywhere. The place's overflowing. Yeah, it's a good thing. Mocha candies are hot stuff these days. They have to stock up every 2 weeks. Yeah. Such hot stuff. They're real healthy too.

Ah. 'Healthy'. Like the so called job he was just offered.

He's okay. He's okay. He is okay.

The shelf is cold against his burning forehead. His boss asked him if he wanted to prostitute himself. Did he look that desperate for money? Did he look inviting?

"Ha. Ha. Ha. Hahahahaha-" The boy covers his face. His name is Hyoudou Issei, he is thirteen years old, he just learnt he is not insane and right now, he is giggling to not lose his goddamn mind.

He breathes into his hands, big breathes, big gulp of air that doesn't reach his brain. He smells a distant smell of medicine. He retches.

He grips his jaw close. Burning vomit runs into his nose and over his clasped hands.

He can't breathe.

He can't breathe.

Oh god, he can't breathe.

Issei is on his stomach, head buried in the inside of his elbow. The ground is cold. Cold is good. Cold is great. He breathes in. Once. Twice. Thrice. He counts to five. He stops. He does it again. Stop. Again. Stop. Again.

His heart stops jumping around.

He groggily washes up in the employees' bathroom. The soap hurts his finger through the bandages. The warm water feels like fire against his sensitive face. When he is done, he walks around when he should sneak and looks squarely at one of the regular employees when she dares to look at him, mouth twisted and brows furrowed.

"What'cha looking at?" He crosses his arms and blurts. Issei recognizes disgust when he sees it. It is what mares her face.

He is acutely aware of his bloody bandages and the bad smell that follows him. Water and cheap soap can't make the scent of vomit disappear, apparently. He knows he is not supposed to be seen. He knows.

She opens her mouth.

"What aren't you working?" The boss pushes her away, remonstrance dished as easily as slaps.

He doesn't say anything about his illegal worker being where he shouldn't be. He doesn't say anything and leave, shoulders hung high.

Issei hopes shame eats his boss alive.

He goes back to the backroom and finishes what he has started. He is quick, numb. He needs the money.

An hour later, he deems his work done. The small things he hasn't done; somebody else will do. He throws his bandages in the garbage can because they are damp and smell like they belong in the garbage. Water will do nothing good to his closing wounds.

He leaves by the backdoor and marches on the sidewalk. Shoulders collide with his own and he doesn't stop to say sorry. People are thinking he is rude. Issei thinks the whole world is…

His heart leaps out of his chest. He stops before he crumbles on the ground and disrupts the road.

A sigh. A breath. He rights himself up.

He passes by the takoyaki stall and doesn't stop for more than a glance and a nod in the chef's direction. He tries to break into a run. Buildings and people do not flash past him. He is slow, so tired. He might be walking and thinking he is running, actually.

"Issei!" The takoyaki's owner is walking towards him quickly, slightly limping on one leg.

He doesn't have the heart to make her walk even a step more. Her right hip must hurt so bad. He sprints to her side.

She uses him as a pole to take a rest. Her hand digs into his forearm and she sighs as she shifts her right leg into a better position. "You sure walk fast, my boy." She pats his hand lightly before she is back to leaning against him. She was tender with his fucked up hands.

Issei breathes in the smell of delicious grease and mizu yokan. It is a painful smell.

She puts the bag she is holding into his hands. She closes his fingers around the handles. Issei almost steps back (he remembers in time that he is what is holding her up). He tries to wriggle the bag around her hands. "Thank you, but I can't accept-"

She waves him shut. "It's for your mother. Hospital's food is not the greatest."

"Thanks." His answer sounds like a sob. He blinks rapidly. His burning eyes threaten to overspill. He makes one last attempt to push back the bag. It is weak against her arms, used as they are to carry heavy loads and fight off wandering hands.

She squeezes his arm. "Come to the stall."

They hobble their way back to her kingdom. Some of the clients recognize Issei and greet him. He greets them back in a small voice. She waves away their attention with an offer for a sample of her mizu yokan. They cheer and forget the boy.

The cook eyes his wife and the boy she brought back. She leads him to the small space behind the stall. The old man turns over his balls of octopi and shifts ever so slightly. The old woman and the boy are out of sight, hidden by a large back.

Issei sits down on a wobbly stool. She pours a transparent liquid in a tiny cup and gives it to him. They both know it is not water.

"Bottom's up, Issei."

He does as she says.

The sake burns down his throat. The taste of vomit disappears, devoured by the flame of his drink. He hiccups. They make no comments about his hands, the smell that clings to him or his red eyes. There's some good left in this world.

She pats his shoulders a few more times. The cook slaps his shoulders as gently as he can for a rough man.

"Go home. Watch out for cars. People don't know how to drive properly, these days. They're all crazy." The cook is gruff as he slanders all the drivers of the town. He adds another box of takoyakis to Issei's bag.

"Yes..." Issei sniffs. He does walk home by himself, slowly. The bag of food is warm in his hands.

He is back home. It is as cold as the outside.

Issei knows every nooks and crannies of the damn place. His ceiling has no more secrets to confess. His neighbors have nothing more to admit through their noises and silences.

He wanders around anyway. He bumps into nothingness. The living room is empty. The bathroom has the bare necessity. The kitchen has a pot, a pan, a fridge and a rat that eats his ration of rice. He pawned off everything. The only things he kept are her books. The rest, he bargained off till his voice was hoarse and his bank account was pleasant to the eye. On some things, he obtained good prices, on others, not so much, but Issei doesn't have time.

He has so little time.

It has been two weeks since his first foray in the Underworld.

Bashir didn't give him a deadline, a time where he must come back to give back his books.

In normal libraries, the readers can take the books for up to 4 weeks before they need to give them back. Or they can notify the librairies and keep them longer if possible.

And, apogee of stupidity, he did not ask how much it would cost to have a fake ID in the Underworld. He should have. He can't go around without knowing anything.

He has no way to contact Bashir. He needs to come down.

A weight compresses his heart.

It troubles him and makes him pace in his apartment. Bathroom, hallway, kitchen, hallway, bedroom, hallway, kitchen. Without thinking, he reaches for a glass and goes to the sink. He is not thirsty, yet he fills it to the brim with water. He twirls it around, observing the small hurricane he is creating.

Water whirls as his thoughts take him to the second drawer to his left where his utensils sit. Of all of them, only one is a knife sharp enough to break his skin and slit his veins. He reaches for it. The metal of the blade gleams under the artificial light of the ceiling lamp.

He toys with the blade. He balances it on his fingers, pondering. His ponders leads to the tip of the blade meeting the tender skin of his wrist. He pushes. A tiny red line appears. Bandages are waiting for him on his bed.

No.

It is not a fire he can play with. He might get burned and like it.

Once, only once.

To wake a beast. And then, never again.

Issei stares at the ceiling. His conscience pulls and stretches his soul in every direction and none at once. Don't do it. Do it. Don't. Yes. No.

He loves his mother. He does. Why can't he hurt, do it for her? A quick pain and then, maybe, all of their problems could be resolved. A terrible thought saps his mind surreptitiously.

Isn't his love enough? Or does he not love her enough?

The knife clatters when it meets the floor. Issei doesn't bother to pick it up. He might do something bad again.

His feet lead him to his bedroom (there's no bed now, just a beaten up futon) and to his nightstand. He searches for a pen, unlocks his drawer and does what he does best these days.

He flips open his notebook. On the first page, he wrote about solutions to his mother's sickness. To the root of all their problems. He traces the letters with his fingertips.

 _Argento Asia_

 _Ddraig_

 _Phoenix's tears_

 _Master_

He crossed Asia on paper and in his mind the very minute he wrote it down. She is too far. She doesn't know him. The Church will be suspicious. The main reason, though, is that he doesn't know where she is at the moment and a plane ticket for Italy is too expensive for the result it might bring.

Ddraig is… a complicated subject. He caresses the word he wrote next to the dragon's name with his thumb. He is getting there.

His eyes read the next word. Ah. Phoenix's tears seem the easiest to get, yet the most faraway. Awakening his Sacred Gear could probably permit him to do some awesome deed which in turn could get him some—who is he kidding? He is no fighter, was beaten mercilessly the last time he tried to do more than be an organic punch bag and has not the slightest idea how to act heroically.

Phoenix's tears are so, so far from his reach. It is not something that can bought with money. Too precious it is to end in his dirty human hands.

A master could hypothetically get him his heart's desire in exchange for his soul. Issei could sell himself.

If his dreams don't lie, and they, as much as they present a skewed reality, did not lead Issei astray for the moment, he can believe in peace that he has a pretty good quality Sacred Gear anchored to his soul.

Good quality stuff normally sells well.

He would be bound for all of eternity or the rest of his earthly life to a master. Somebody's property. A master who could tell him to do anything and Issei would be bound by his word, a contract and magic to obey. He would probably have to participate in Rating Games. The flashes of violence that thought brings leave him shivering.

Lie? Yes, Master. Steal? Yes, Master. Sex? Yes, Master. Kill? Yes, Master.

He would lose more than his freedom in such a bargain. He would lose his soul. He would cease to be the boy his mother raised. He would go against her principles and his.

(He knows he isn't quite the boy she raised already. He feels so old.)

Oh, he could find himself a good master. Someone with principles and a good heart. However, does that kind of person has the mean to get him Phoenix's tears. Issei snorts.

No. Not in the kind of world he unravels with books and words.

The distant scent of acid and forgotten dishes makes his nose tingle. He gulps and closes his notebook with a slam. He has nothing useful to add.

Issei needs air. His apartment is no haven.

* * *

He walks, slowly. He took the bag of takoyaki without thinking when he left home. Eating outside, in the cold, might clear his head. Might make sense of his terrible day, horrible week. He wanted to take the bus to the hospital, but then he remembered his mother can't eat greasy food anymore. She doesn't eat much of anything these days. The drip is a constant at her side since her first day. His wayward feet lead him to a place he is not quite ready to face yet.

The old man with the pink umbrella is still on the rotten bench, an unmoving mountain in the landscape. A mountain not one but him see. He feels kind of sad when he looks at him. Mount Fuji, the teen muses, is never forgotten. People who live by it know it stays there, they know that they just need to turn their head to see something beautiful. Sometimes, they do turn and marvel for the light has hit it so that entire mountain seems to shine.

This mountain, residing on a rotten bench, Issei is the only one to see it.

He hesitates, thinks about going back, to that cold, empty place. He steps forward; his curiosity is the only reason he doesn't want to be alone, he tries to convince himself. Bashir said something about the eyes of a guardian of the gates of the Underworld. Something about it being not easy to pass them. The old man is not what he seems to be.

Appearances lie, Issei.

The bag weights his hands down. He takes a step forward.

He stretches his arm out and presents the little he can offer. "For you. Takoyakis."

The mountain shifts slightly and glassy eyes stare at him. Issei feels he is unimpressed.

Issei remembers his manners and blushes. "May your mind always be keen." He tries shyly.

The old man nods approvingly. "And may your hands be ready."

The rock inside Issei's stomach is lighter. See. He doesn't fuck every time.

The old mountain stretches one hand and accepts Issei's gift. "Thank you, young one."

Issei has nothing to say, had no plan to before and sure doesn't now. He squats down. The bench looks to weary to be able to stand his weight too. Eating alone when he was so used to the chatter and twitter makes him sad. Surely, he can't be the only one to feel this way?

"You are not going to the Underworld today." The old man says, for it is not a question. He states a fact. It sounds awfully like small talk to Issei. He is happy to answer.

"No." The boy hums. He glances behind him. The ruins of a wall still stand proud.

The old mountain is stretching his arms, shoulders moving as boulders would. A box of takoyakis is under Issei's nose. "Take one, young one."

"It is a gift." Issei puts his hands up and try to wave the delicious balls away.

"A gift I wish to share. Eat up, youngling."

Issei caves in. He is hungry now. Eating with somebody is not half-bad. Issei gnaws on a ball of greasy deliciousness and decides he will come by when he can.

* * *

Happy Halloween!

It took me longer than necessary to write this chapter. I lost half of it a few days ago because I didn't save properly... It bummed me quite a bit. And the topics in this chapter bum me quite a bit too. I didn't have the time to beta that chapter, I just really wanted it to be done by tonight. So sorry if you see any weird wordings or just plain non-English.

 **Announcement**! Schedule is on my profile page. **_BIG Announcement!_** My _P.a.t.r.e.o.n_ Page will be launched soon for those that wanna know a bit more about this story and other stuff (maybe advanced chapters, who knows…). **_End of announcement!_**

For those curious, 'Health' is the name given to these kind of jobs (aka prostitution or as close as you can get to it without breaking the law. The Japanese working in red districts toy with the line or play with the wording of the law to get away with a lot.).

Have you noticed that the pace of the chapters is a bit erratic? I'm trying to subtly showcase Issei's state of mind by doing that. He is all over the place and, well, that's understandable.

Finally, I wanna thank 'Guest' for his/her review. Man, dude, dudette, you don't know how much your review cheered me up. I'm no genius (4-5 years of practice on this site to get where I'm at now), I didn't exactly live through what Issei is living and I'm no professional. I'm just a laywoman. And you, saying that my writing, that Issei's story, is good, well, that just make me want to write more. To tell you the truth, I'm flattered. I'll strive to dazzle you in the future.

31/10/2018


	5. Adieu, reality

Issei continues to go to work. His guts twist and cold sweat runs down his spine while he strains his ears to hear the sounds outside. He jumps every time the door to his working room is opened. He perseveres still.

He works, he reads, he runs, he sleeps, he writes.

The first thing takes almost all of his time, the second less so and so forth. There and here, he eats.

There are no more talks about a hypothetical job in the health industry. His heart relaxes. A bit.

He still passes by the takoyaki stall. He went back to his routine of stationning himself close enough to the clients so the wife sees him quickly. She beckons him closer each time and he works for a few hours every time. He has noticed the couple is not as agile as they used to be. His eyes must have been blinded to not see her lead-footed gait or his trembling hands.

Time is not waiting for anybody.

He completely stops going to school. He sometimes sees his classmates on the streets, at the candies store or at the stall. They point and whisper. Issei offers them his customer smile and his damn best service. They're not brave enough to ask questions or make fun of him. He seems to have his life together, working. They're just little kids who eat out with the pocket money their parents gave them.

It all comes to a head as Issei feels ready to approach the gate of the Underworld for more than a hearty chat.

The day starts as usual. Issei washes up with the tiny little piece of soap he is going to stretch thin until the end of the week. He dips his stale slice of bread in warm water that vaguely tastes like tea. His kind of dirty cup is probably to blame for the taste.

Knocks on his door are not part of his morning routine. Issei puts his cup in a precarious situation at the top of the mountain of junks that rules his sink. He will wash them. Someday. He tucks his shirt in his pants and hopes his neighbors won't fuss over his appearance again. His hair is maybe a bit greasy. He pats it down as he reaches for his door.

He opens the door.

His neighbor is not the one at the door.

"Hyoudou." His teacher is.

Issei grips the doorknob. He doesn't shift to let his teacher enter. They stand together in the cold.

"Hello, sir." The teen mutters. He rounds his shoulders and becomes a boulder of taunt muscles and anxiety.

His teacher frowns. His right foot nudges forwards, but he doesn't dare to barge inside.

"Hyoudou, we need to talk." There's harshness in his teacher's voice, a lost softness in the way he pronounces Issei's thrice damned last name.

Issei thinks about school. His guts form a knot. Nope. Nope. Get away from me, panic attack. Come back when I'm done with him. Issei tries to hold it together. He smoothes whatever expression he had on. Must have been an ugly one, given the deep crease between his teacher's bushy eyebrows. Looks as deep at the Marianne's trenches. And is that a spot just on the edge of the crease? Oh, it must hurt.

"You need to come to school. This cannot go on. Or do you want me to call your father?" His teacher brings Issei back to the conversation the teen has absolutely no desire to participate in.

Issei focuses on the man in front of him. Empty threats, empty treaths, his mind rails. He ain't a kid scared of whatever his parents can dish out. He has no parents present to be scared of.

"Why must I go?" Issei talks loud and clear. The quicker they are done, the quicker he can hide away.

"You have to. It's the law." His teacher now sounds confidant, as if Issei's defiant answer gave him reasons to be hopeful for his student's education. As if Issei would bow down to the weight of his authority when he didn't to repeated phone calls.

Issei is, in fact, tempted. There's a certain appeal to being a good boy. There's the appeal of not having to deal with grown up and their cold decisions. They stamp a paper and he is deemed a problematic teen. They stamp a paper and suddenly he is displaced in another family, in another world.

"You can't let yourself ruin your future." His teacher adds softly when Issei's silence has stretched long enough to look guilty.

His future. It always comes back to it, doesn't it?

Bashir's words and its underline echo in his ears. It's the law, but the law can be tricked. The law can be bypassed, young friend.

Issei smiles.

His teacher wants a good student. He wants Issei to a good citizen. He wants him to stop being sad.

It isn't that fucking easy.

"Sorry teacher, I decided that the hikikomori lifestyle is the one for me. Bye." Issei pushes and bam, the door is slammed.

Issei stares at the door he just slammed at his teacher's face.

Silence reigns on both sides. His heartbeats drum in his ears. He hears footsteps leave the front of his door and go down the stairs of his building. His teacher is leaving.

He slides down against his door. The ceiling is as white as ever. The wall to his right cracks. His neighbors are leaving for their morning walk. They're later than usual. They might have listened to his drama.

He laughs. "What hikikomori life?"

Who would have thought that acting so shameless would feel so good?

* * *

Issei adjusts the bag on his shoulders. It's full to the brim. He had some trouble cramming that last pair of socks.

His neighbor sniffs.

He offers her a small smile.

His old neighbors stand by their door. The sweet, let-me-roll-up-my-sleeves,-I'll-take-care-of-it old lady sniffs once more and hands him a plastic box. Issei knows by the smell alone that it is her famed white chocolate cookies. When the box is secured under his arm, her husband shakes his hand, his two hands wrinkly enveloping his own in a warm accolade.

"Be good with your father. He works hard in the city for you." She adds softly, voice creaking.

Her husband glances at his wife but says nothing. He nods at Issei deeply.

"Are you sure you don't want our son to drive you? Taking the train all alone won't be easy." She asks again.

Issei offers them the same answer he gave her everytime she looked at him with that pair of anxious eyes. "Dad already paid for the train ticket. It would be a waste to not use it now. And your son is busy; you told me he was working hard for his promotion. I'll be fine. It's not my first time taking the train to Tokyo. Dad will be waiting for me at station, right at the exit."

"Issei knows what he is doing. He's grown up. He will be fine." Her husband coaxes her.

"I suppose you're right." She sighs and nods. She reaches for Issei free hands and pats it nervously. "Do call us when you're home."

Issei nods. "I'll try." He pauses and hums thoughtfully. "Once I have a new phone, okay? Like that you will have my new number."

"Okay. Just remember to give us some news about your new life." She adjusts his scarf around his neck. Her smile is tearful. Her voice is crying.

He smiles at them one last time. He attempts a bow that ends with the plastic box almost slipping away from his grasp and him on the floor in his attempt to catch it on time. She rights him and tugs his scarf closer to his neck laughingly this time.

One last goodbye later, Issei is on his way. As he turns the corner of their street, he catches a glimpse of them, standing by the railing, peering through the branches of tree to see him. They're still waving.

The guilt makes him walk faster.

He can't go back and apologize for his lies. He told everybody that he was going to Tokyo to live with his father. He told the owner his father would pay the fees for the contract forceful ending. He told his neighbors not to worry. He called his school and gave them his father's dead phone number. He told the hospital's staff he would come in a few weeks to see his mother.

They all believed him. They are so relieved to know his father is, after all, not that much of a scum. They are happy to see a fellow human still has a bit of conscience; he did not completely abandon his family. In dire hours, he recalled his son.

Issei tried to rejoice as they did. He thinks they took his subdued smiles and short, hoarse laughs as an excess of happiness.

If only.

Lying is bad. Criminal acts are bad. What he is doing is wrong.

Yet, it is the culmination of all his hard work in the past weeks. It is his grand leap, so to speak. His desperate jump to latch onto something akin to hope.

He licks his dry lips and moves forwards. There's no time to philosophize on his actions. There's no time to pause. No time to think about what his caring neighbors' expression will be when they learn he disappeared without a word. They will probably learn that he lied when the police or the children protection service appear at their doorstep with questions about his whereabouts.

The bag is heavy on his shoulders. It is all that he has.

His first stop is the hospital. Her room hasn't changed since his last visit. No real light enters it. The way the sun's rays hits the windows makes sure her space is always flooded by a grey twilight. He takes his wallet out. There, fragile and crooked, lays the pink flower he pressed for her in spring and forgot in one of his books. Its color faded. He knows she thought it was beautiful, so it still must be in her eyes.

He puts it on her nightstand, on her faithful favorite book ( _Japanese tree and how to take care of them_ ), with a small plain card underneath.

 _For Mom_

 _From Issei_

He observes her weary wrinkles. Her thin neck. Her chest that caves in with her exhale. He stares until his eyes are burning. He wants to commit her to his memory. Her smile is painted in a corner of his soul. He wants the rest of her to stay with him while he tries to find a way out of their nightmare.

He is so weak. He has to be strong. Maybe he will be if, when everything seems to be wrong, he can close his eyes and see her.

He would prefer to be able to picture her healed or healthy. He settles down for her shallow breath and weak strength instead. It's killing him, a visit at the time. He might not have been able to take care of her at home at this point. He can't stay long when he goes to the hospital. It hurts too much.

He leaves when her eyes shiver under her eyelids.

He knows how to make himself scarce. His feet lead to a familiar ruined wall and an unmovable old man.

Issei did come back to eat with him again. Several times.

They talked a bit each time. Issei still doesn't know the old man's name. He just calls him 'uncle'. The old man seems content with the nickname.

Issei likes their little talks.

He can forget the weight on his shoulders, concentrate on the present and the pebbles at his feet. He can forget his mother can't dress herself anymore and needs constant help at the hospital.

"Hello, uncle." Issei dislodges his thumbs from under his bag's straps.

"Hello, young one." Ah, and Uncle doesn't use his name. It could be a Devil thing or just Uncle's own quirk. Issei doesn't know and doesn't ask. Some things are better when they're mysterious.

"I need go to the Underworld." Issei says. The travel fee is already in the palm of his hand. He presents it to the guardian of the gate.

Uncle rolls his shoulders back. He is taller than Issei is, sitting on a collapsed bench. Issei doesn't shift back, even if his guts tell him to turn and leave. He stands his ground.

"Where is your seal?" The old man rumbles, glassy eyes rowing over the teen tiny form.

Issei stretches his hand silently. Persistently.

"My kindness, you already tried. What good reasons do you have to pass through the gate without the seal of the master you claimed?" The guardian does not beat around the bush. He is truthful and efficient. Truth is harsh for Issei.

He detected Issei's lies. Issei's heart makes a jump to his guts before it climbs to the back of his mouth. It beats and throbs. Issei shuffles. His mind is empty of answers. Only lies surface, and none will pass unnoticed. Only truth is left. Issei bets on it. "My mother is dying."

Glassy eyes do not blink. They appear blank and disinterested. "That is not a reason. It is a justification."

Issei squats down on his usual spot. It gives him time to find his next words. He rehearsed this in his mind, just in case. (Uncle finding out he isn't quite what he claimed. Anybody finding out, really.) He needs to look calm, poised. In his element. There's no going back. "I believe I can find a medicine, something, to help her."

Uncle doesn't comment on his stutter. Issei still curses his trembling lips a thousand times.

"You believe." Uncle raises. His glassy eyes fix Issei in place.

"I know." Issei amends his words in one breath. "I know there's something that can save her."

Uncle's lips move but no sounds leave him. No sounds Issei can hear at least. They stand their ground in the strained silence. Issei cannot lower his head and admit he is in the wrong and should not be asking for what he is. He cannot.

Uncle sighs. It sounds like hope to Issei's buzzing ears. "Where do you think you will find it?"

Issei pursues his lips. "In the land of the Phenex."

"Will you acquire it by unlawful means?"

"What?" Issei yelps.

Uncle shifts his legs. His knees crack and creak. He stands up, both hands holding his umbrella as a makeshift cane. He looms over the boy. "You will not steal what is not yours."

Issei stands up slowly. The bag on his back is heavy. He doesn't want to be a criminal. He shakes his head and meets glassy eyes head on. "No."

"Promise on your name, young one."

Issei jolts. His book on manners talked about it briefly. To promise on your name is as binding as shackling your destiny to a Master. For Devils, Magic Herself recognizes the oath and binds the person to it. To violate such a promise would bring nothing but misery. Magic does not look kindly upon those who break faith. Issei doesn't know if it is simply superstitions or reality, but he doesn't want to try supernatural beings' patience.

Stillness envelops them. He puts his left hand over his pounding heart. He winces at the noise his hand makes as it scratches his coat. He is disturbing the silence of the Stillness. It feels like the muzzy moment between awakening and sleeping.

"I, Hyoudou Issei, promise on my name that I will not acquire medicine for my mother by unlawful means." The words flow from his mouth. They complete the Stillness. The world shifts. The wind blows the wisps of Stillness away with the echoes of his promise.

The guardian holds his umbrella as a cane and taps the ground heavily with its tip. "May Magick binds and protects your promise."

Issei feels something thrums under his skin. Magick has heard his promise, it seems. He smiles like a fool for no reason. He has made an unbreakable promise to an all powerful being. His heart beats with the tranquility of still water. He knows he will not go back on his words.

Uncle sits back. The bench cries a pitiful whimper out. "On your way, young one."

Issei licks his dry lips. He feels adventurous. "Do… I still need a seal for the next time?"

"Do not push your luck." The old guardian grunts. He waves his umbrella around, glassy eyes sparkling.

Issei evades the incoming push of the old man (his umbrella is already raised and the tip looks too sharp for comfort) and bounces through the gate with a laugh. The sleazy sensation sticks to his skin as he walks through the black veil. He feels like he's licked all over. He shivers.

The train is where it was the last time, waiting in its lane. In his hand, there's no coin. There's only a large ticket that spells _Underworld_.

He smiles at the fuming train.

"Underworld, here I come."

* * *

I cut the supposed chapter for this week in two. This is first part, so to say. The two halves were too big and putting them together was stretching my soul thin. Honestly, this part alone is a chapter.

Good news is that the next chapter should come out soon.

I tend to write a lot when I'm inspired. However, I don't write things that are always connected. I might just write a paragraph about something that should happen in the next chapter and then jump to something that will hypothetically happen someday. I write snippets. Afterwards, I need to sew it all together into something people can read and understand. Sometimes, I need to rewrite my 'snippets' so they make sense. Sometimes, I need to add one thousand words because jumping from one thing to another too quickly is awful and jarring for me, the author, so I don't even want to think what it does to your precious eyes, readers. That is what takes away my precious time and energy. And makes me late on schedule, hehe.

I have a poll on my profile! Go check it out!

18/11/2018


	6. Hello, Underworld

Issei is once again brazenly walking in the Underworld for all eyes to see. His hands are safely tucked in his coat' pockets and there's a swagger to his steps.

The sun is still climbing its way over the horizon. Mellow pink and yellow set the sky ablaze. He was too hasty.

He shuffles his way through the hazy fog and the sleep-deprived people who haunt the sleepy roads. The city is waking, if it was ever sleeping.

The teen finds his way in the elegant old district alone, feet steadily hitting smooth cobblestones. He doesn't feel like stopping to ask people directions. He doesn't feel like talking. He certainly didn't want to follow the winding path he took last time. Issei is no tourist today.

His ankles itch and his shoulders ache with each step he takes. The weight of the money around his ankles, between his first and second pair of socks is unbearable. He has to fight the urge to bend down and verify everything is still down there. His back is slick with sweat.

He is not stupid. He did keep a small emergency amount in his bank account. For emergencies grocery shopping and more illegal matters.

The rest is evenly divided in his socks, inner pockets and boxers. He has the bare minimum in his wallet too, just in case.

Issei is in front of the bookshop in no time, which is very good. He thinks the money around his left ankle is escaping the half hundred cheap elastics that are keeping it in place. His feet feel numb. His blood flow is not a fan of the elastics either. He might have gone overboard with them.

The fiery Glorygold banners are still up on each side of the dark wooden door, proudly displaying a forgotten flower. Issei doesn't knock. He pushes the door and sighs when his hand meets no resistance. The shop is open. Bashir Mumtaka must be there.

The emptiness of the shop leaves him nervous. He trudges to the table where they talked about knowledge and its cost, once upon a time. It feels like a life away. He caresses the worn wood. Doubts over his sanity edge closer. Is he daydreaming again? The wood is cool against his hands. It doesn't calm his wonderings about his sanity. Is he really making the right choice?

"How is your fire faring on this fine morning, young friend?" Issei lets his hands slide to his sides. He turns his head and yes, it is indeed sir Mumtaka who startled him. He is sitting on a ladder, hands rummaging around titles.

"My fire fares well, Mister Mumtaka. May your soul burns forever." His cheerful tone does not sound as happy as it should be. Issei hides his troubles behind cupped hands and a bowed head. He should have seen him. He can't not see people, especially here.

Bashir rustles and from the sound of it, mimics Issei's gesture from high above. "May your fire never be extinguished. Put yourself at ease, please. I'll be down soon."

Issei sets his bag down and lets himself fall in a chair that seems devoid of books. He fidgets, uncomfortable. His hand goes to his behind and finds a few magazines. He hops to his feet and puts them on the table. He smoothes one that was somewhat crumpled by his assault.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to." He offers with a grimace. Where's your top game, Issei? Not here. Well it freaking should be.

"I know." Bashir does not hide his amusement. He slides down the ladder with the agility that no men who seem his age should have. His bold pink shirt stands out under his black waistcoat (or whatever that thing is named. People in movies wear that. James Bond does. Classy.).

Issei finds himself smiling too. A cup of steaming tea appears in Bashir's hands. He offers it to Issei. The teen accepts it with both hands and a grateful smile.

"What brings you back to my humble abode?" There's nothing humble about the bookstore, but Issei keeps his mouth shut. Devils might just have a different sense of luxury.

"I have your books." Issei opens his bursting bag. He catches the small bag of books he put on top on his possession before it falls to the ground. He gives himself a mental pat in the back, because fishing for Bashir's books in this monster of a bag in front of the Devil would have been painfully embarrassing.

"Ah. That is good. I almost have no copies left of this one." Bashir accepts the bag. He glimpses at its content before putting it aside.

Issei is both happy that the bookseller trusts him with his books enough to not flick them open and see if he has tarnished them with food (almost did once. He's never eating chocolate and reading again.) and unhappy that he has nothing to hide behind.

His connection to an Underworld ID is smiling placidly, thin hands round his cup.

Issei breathes in through his nose. The panic attack is not here, he will not let it settle in.

"How much would it be, for a fake ID and a fake seal?" He does not stammer. He breathes out.

"How much do you have?" Bashir is as direct as Issei. It comes out more naturally.

His hand reaches for his foot before he can control himself. Issei remembers too late that showing how much he has too early will make him poorer faster. He awkwardly pats his pants and rights himself under Bashir's amused gaze.

"That's my business." The teen coughs.

Bashir doesn't laugh at his face, which is nice. He does seem to find the situation humorous, however . "If your provider is a good friend and in a good mood, the ID will only cost you 350 Feathers. I believe that in yen, it would be…" Bashir pauses, fingers tapping his armchair as he counts silently, "45 500 yen."

It is not as much as Issei feared. The pang in his heart and wallet is still very much real.

"What's the rate?" Issei purses his bottom lip. It occurs to him a beat later that his question might appear rude.

Bashir sips his tea. Its jasmine scent wafts to Issei's nose. "The rate is one Feather to 130 yen."

Issei stares at his fingers and pretends to count to see if Bashir's numbers add up. It seems to be about right and he feels ridiculous to the core. He nods quickly to hide his lack of skills in math and his embarrassment. He sips at his tea and mulls over what he is going to say next.

"Are you in a good mood?" Issei settles on being cheeky. Cheeky is good. Cheeky might give him what he wants.

The somewhat seasoned criminal curves his lips upwards. He makes no comment.

Issei takes it as a yes. He smiles for real, happy with himself.

"And the seal?" The teen asks.

Bashir shifts on his chair. He crosses his legs elegantly, if that's possible. "It depends which seal you want."

"Amon's." Issei needs it if he wants to come back. Uncle told him to not push his luck. He will not. He will be good and play by the rules if that is what will get him where he wants to be.

Bashir puts his cup down. His wrinkly eyes do not frown, but they do darken. "It is not a cheap one. It will also take some times for your provider to find it. Phenex's seal is easier to find in these parts."

Issei accepts the concern and warning with a thoughtful nod. Still, he stares straight at his connection and perseveres. "I need it."

"Very well. You should come back to the designated place for the seal in 2 days. By then, your provider should have it."

Bashir's way of speaking, admitting yet not that he is the connection and the provider, puzzles Issei. He does not comment. He knows the designated place is obviously the bookshop.

Issei reaches for his right foot and disentangles his wad of bills from his second sock. He counts the bills until he has the amount necessary for his ID. 45 000 yen lays atop the table. It's not that much. He can survive without that. If Bashir swindles him, it is not as if he will die from the loss. Who is he kidding, he is laying on a random table months of savings he gathered with a little spoon that had a giant hole in the middle.

"Why don't you browse my books while I take care of your business?" Bashir asks as he gets up. His cup disappears. The money does too.

"Okay. Wait-" An idea sprouted in his rotten brain while he was waiting for the train. It bloomed into an elaborate plan on the ride. It is something that makes his scalp tingles and his heart quivers. He is more than toying with the line now. He stamps on it if he speaks; he is restricted in his movements if he doesn't. The choice is easy. "On the ID, can you put Hayashi Issei."

There's a tension at the back of his skull, as if something was tugging his hair, skin, bones and brain back. Issei endures.

"You no longer are Hyoudou Issei?" The bookkeeper enunciates slowly. His dark eyes stare down at Issei.

The teen can see golden sparks melting in their brown hues. He shivers. He fights to keep his shoulders straight. The hair on his nape stands. Is this what Magic feels like?

It is-

Horrifyingly thrilling.

Names are important for Devils. So very important they swear several great oaths to Magic on it. Only a human would think about something as unholy as changing his name.

If he can be cheeky with his teacher, he can be cheeky with Magic.

(He is being way more than cheeky, but Issei prefers not to think about it too much.)

"Not anymore." Issei abandons his father's name. There is no remorse. He embraces his mother's maiden name. He closes his eyes. His teeth find his bottom lips. He is Hayashi Issei. He is Hayashi Issei. Hayashi Issei.

He can make this happen. Has to.

The tension leaves.

He opens his eyes and sighs. He feels like a shackle he didn't know he had around his neck has been taken off.

Bashir stares at him a moment more than what is comfortable or acceptable. He tilts his head in a semblance of a nod. "Then Hayashi Issei it is."

The ashen haired-man turns around and flickers out. Issei is left unsupervised in a well of knowledge. A hysteric chortle leaves him. He did it. He fucking did it. He changed his truth.

He chokes on his tea twice before he can control the shudders that run through his chest. He finishes his cup. He lets himself fall against the backrest of his chair. It's more comfortable than he ever thought possible for a chair.

When his knees turn back to bones and muscles and not some weird jelly, he leaves his bag, his coat and his too many layers of clothes on a chair and heads for the section labeled 'Angels' in the back of the bookshop. It might conceal what he seeks.

He patiently follows the racks, eyes trained on lettering that twists into Japanese as his fingertips graze their cover.

There are plenty of books on the potency of God's system against Devils. Plenty on how Angels can become Fallen. Plenty explains how to exterminate Angels. There is an entire shelf which he squirmed through that obsessed over their wings and how to exploit them, in all the senses possible. There's absolutely nothing on God's System or Sacred Gears. Issei makes two rounds around the tall dozen of shelves and even dares to climb ladders.

When he tries to go deeper into the section, his feet advance yet he stays at the same spot. The titles around him stay the same; the towering shelves do not change in the slightest. Issei abandons and turns back. He has lost enough time.

He walks to the Humans' section. Maybe he will find something there.

Nothing.

Oh, he does see interesting titles such as 'Importance of Human Politics in the Underworld' or 'The legacy of Julius Ceasar the Magician'. Yet, nothing on Sacred Gears.

He goes back to his corner of the bookshop. His bag is where he left it, at the foot of his chair. Bashir Mumtaka is nowhere in sight. Issei checks his watch to discover that he spent 3 hours searching in vain.

"You did not find anything of interest?"

Issei jumps for real this time. His heart jumps with him.

Bashir is behind him and definitely laughing inside. His dark eyes twinkle, if that is somehow physically possible. Issei inwardly decides to stop wondering if something is possible or not. He is in the Underworld. A Dragon is shackled to his soul. Everything is ridiculous all around. He should stop asking stupid questions.

Issei hounds for the important matters. Not a word about Bashir's mysterious jumping powers. "Do you have anything on Sacred Gears?"

"Sacred Gears?" The bookkeeper repeats slowly. His eyes stop twinkling.

Issei squirms.

The silence stretches over their souls.

His heart shakes. The abrupt thought that his dreams might have misled him to think he has something that simply doesn't exist makes him mute. If Sacred Gears don't exist, what can he use? How can he obtain her medicine? How can he do anything?

Bashir is hovering so close that their hairs are brushing and melting. His fiery breath, all smoke and jasmine tea, smothers Issei. "How do you know about Sacred Gears?"

There is urgency in the hands that crumple his shirt and bring him closer, in a steely embrace. "Were you Changed because of a Sacred Gear? You have one?"

Issei backs away. His shirt screams.

Bashir lets go of his shoulders with a jolt. A seal flares on the door. Issei feels trapped.

"Nobody will hear this conversation, young friend. You are safe here."

The teen doesn't answer. He concentrates on his breathing. One, two, three, four, five. Breathe. Breathe. Fucking breathe!

A hand pushes him into a chair. Issei doesn't have the strength to push it back. As gentle as the hand is; it is not a wanted presence. Nothing is a wanted presence. The light is too harsh. His breathing is too loud. The fabric of the chair under him is too coarse.

No, no, no, no. Not again. Not again.

" _Drink_."

A cup appears in front of his lips and, Issei drinks.

His mind reels. It comes back into focus.

The light becomes softer. He breathes shallowly through his sips. The chair he sits on becomes smooth and soft again.

The hand that pushes his sticky hair out of his face is gentle again. "Forgive me, young Issei. I did not mean to frighten you."

Issei looks up from under his eyelashes. Bashir does look as frazzled as he feels. The boy tries to ease his throat as he gulps air. He offers a tiny, tired smile. He is sorry too, for showing that. For not being strong enough. He is supposed to be strong. He has to. Panic attacks are not supposed to strangle him every time he is a bit scared. He shouldn't let them settle in. He shouldn't be like that.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- do that." Issei blinks back his shame.

"Don't say that. You shouldn't be sorry." Bashir's voice is stern. "I am the one at fault. You felt trapped, didn't you? I should have thought about that before locking the shop down."

Issei pursues his bottom lip. He nods mutely.

Bashir waves and Issei's cup is full again with the sweeter smelling tea that made him feel normal. "Take a sip. It's a specialty around here. It never tastes the same, from one tea leaf to another. You might not like it this time but adore it the next."

Issei puts the cup to his lips, even as his brain goes on a bender about the fact that he isn't supposed to eat or drink or touch, really, anything that is potentially magical. Tea that never has the same taste sure does sound magical. Warm liquid, neither too cold nor too hot, hits his taste buds. He swallows.

"It tastes like mango." Issei chirps. He licks his dry lips. He takes another sip and he doesn't choke on poison. His skin doesn't turn blue. He is still healthy and alive. His shoulders relax.

"Lucky you." Bashir grumbles. "I have scorched mint. Not a very good mix with our previous tea."

Issei is grateful for the normalness he is offered. He breathes in.

Bashir settles on a chair closer to Issei, next to him. He always chose to be in front of him before. They stay silent.

The bookstore owner smacks his lips when he finishes his cup. Issei has been done with it for a long time. He was admiring the ceiling where a Glorygold blooms in mosaic, a petal at a time. After each of his breath, he moved his gaze to another petal.

"There are not many books about Sacred Gears in existence." Bashir starts softly. Issei sets his gaze on his empty cup. The beginning of bitter disappointment floods his dam. "Most are kept in private libraries, away from prying eyes. Most Devils forget easily –or prefer to forget- that Humans were gifted with great powers."

Bashir turns the white cup between his hands mindlessly, fingertips sometimes caressing its rim. Issei listens.

"Young friend. Sacred Gears bearers… they often appear in wartime and seldom in peace time. For that very reason, they are more feared than loved."

Issei gulps. That is something he feared and anticipated. His dreams whisper of violence and murder more than they do of peace.

"What do you know about Sacred Gears?" The teen asks softly.

"Rumours. Unsaid things. We, Devils, are not the best source of information on what comes from the Holy. I might have a few books that could help you… but your best option would be to contact a Sacred Gear user."

"I can't." Not right now, at least.

"It is not in your best interest, yes." Bashir chimes in slowly.

Issei blinks. He stares at the snowy haired man, questions in his gaze.

The older man sets his cup down. His dark gaze meets Issei's. His clothes rustle as he turns to face him fully. "I'm afraid that if your master does not want to cultivate your Gear, it might be worthless. Or not in your Master's interest to cultivate you."

Issei waits for the rest, guts queasy. It doesn't really concern him, not as much as the bookseller thinks it does, but it still holds his attention. He is discovering this new Underworld, a comment at the time.

The Devil leans forwards. His hot breath hits the Human's forehead. "Know that if Master is not high enough in the hierarchy, you will be swapped."

Issei licks his lips in a conscious effort to not bite them or make them bleed. They're drier than sand. "How do you define high enough?"

"If your Master is not a High Noble Level, he won't remain your Master long." The older man states, enunciating each word clearly. Perhaps he fears Issei won't understand.

He kind of does. "Why?"

"Powerful people want to remain powerful. They have their way to obtain what they want." Bashir's comment tastes bitter. Sound, but bitter. Issei nods soundlessly.

The elder man pulls back. He shifts on his chair before his gaze settles on his guest again. "Forgive my inquiry, but what is your position in the peerage?"

"I'm," Issei pushes his lips tight and says no lie. He offers silence and hopes his benefactor will not insist.

The bookseller stares at him with a soft gaze that looks like pity. Issei has never had a good eye for emotions and by the gods, he doesn't want to put any that might be wrong on someone he knows so little of and has to trust so much.

Bashir clears his throat. "Do you need a place to stay?"

"I do." He cannot go back without his papers. Uncle said so. Nothing awaits him in the Human world anyway. He needs to stay till he has his shit figured it out.

"Follow me."

Issei scrambles to get all of his belongings in his arms. They walk past shelves and chaos, deep into the library. The light changes, dims as they leave the illuminated center of it. Blurs surround them and follow them. Issei stay close to his guide, a half-step behind him. He watches his feet to not step on his heels.

Bashir flicks his hand and Issei _sees_.

There's light again. Issei looks at the bright chandeliers hung to the high ceiling and thinks, perhaps it never left. There are no more looming shelves filled with knowledge around them, only a small hallway of dark wood.

His feet sink into a thick carpet.

Bashir opens the door at the end of the hallway. Warmth and scents hit Issei's face as he enters the room after him.

"This is the kitchen. You can come cook here. The tea set is in that cupboard." The old man in a pink shirt is pointing things and talking. Issei is deaf. Words enter his left ear and leave by his right word. He is too busy looking around. His mind hasn't quite caught up with the new event.

Bashir leads him to a small bedroom adjacent to the kitchen. A worn bed lies, abandoned, in a corner.

"You can stay here as long as you need. It is not much, but you'll be safe of harm here." He states as he moves away from the door so Issei can enter.

Issei stays on the threshold of the bedroom. There's everything he could need in here. There's a fluffy comforter on the bed, calling his weary legs. There's an old chair by a window and Issei knows it will creak softly if he settles on it. Light and warmth permeate the air.

"What do I need to sell?" Issei squirms on the edge, not daring to enter the room without clarifying his situation.

"Pardon?" Bashir blinks. The corner of his eyes turns downward and Issei has the distinct feeling that the elder man is miffed.

Issei repeats himself softly. His voice dies before he can finish voicing what is on his mind. Bashir is staring at him blankly.

Finally, the old bookshop owner sighs and a light feather seems to brush his expression into a gentler one. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Issei knows he sounds dumb. He feels dumb too. But he needs to be sure.

"You proved you could take care of other people's property already." Bashir not quite pats (brushes, that's the word. Brushes.) Issei's shoulder.

"Do you have special rules here?" He feels the blush bloom as he insists. "Can I read your books when I want to?"

"Perhaps not all the time. Young people need their sleep." Bashir quips. Issei tries a laugh. It doesn't sound too bad.

"Lunch is in thirty minutes. We will talk more then. Make yourself at home. If you need anything, ring the bell on the kitchen's table." Bashir leaves him with those words. He also leaves the door slightly ajar.

Issei listens to his steps. They eventually disappear into silence. Issei sets his junk down and sits on the bed and, yes, the comforter is as comfortable as it looks.

He reaches for his bag and blindly searches for his notebooks. He flips them open and calmly crosses _Master_. It is definitely not an option anymore. He can't put his fate in the hands of another. He can't let the thinking and the ordering to a person that could easily let him down. He has to use his brain. He will, then.

He scratches his forehead with the butt of his pen.

The word written so messily next to _Ddraig_ attracts his eyes, as always. He traces the characters with his index.

The boy feels the most complicated about this one. In one of his dreams, 'Rias' proclaimed that desire awakens Sacred Gear. He simply has to desire hard enough. Issei knows he desires his mother's well-being more than anything else, more than sanity, a comfortable bed or beating his sire's ass so hard his ancestors would feel it too.

Yet, no red scales cover his left arm.

It is maddening.

He remembers the soft golden girl of his dreams (Asia Argento. Even her name sounded gentle and kind.) The Asia Argento of his dreams gives a piece of herself every other day. Always on the frontline, always gently closing wounds and healing souls.

Perhaps her desire to help was the key that awakened her Sacred Gear. Perhaps something else was the key.

He remembers obscurely a story _that_ man once told him, about a man who approached a sage in his quest to find God. The sage drowned him in a river and let him go at the last second. He then told him to come back to his sides when he desires God as much as he desired oxygen when he was drowning.

He traces the sloppy characters one last time.

 _Death_

He has played with the idea well before he wrote the word.

Death might kill him.

Death might lead to his rebirth. _Might_.

He discards his pen and notebook on the bed.

Hayashi Issei gathers his knees to his chest and burrows his head in the crook of his elbow.

This place is so warm. The bed sinks under him. He feels in a cocoon. This is kindness. The slightly open door, the offered shelter, the tea and the talks… This is the real deal, not the wishy-washy sauce people offer without meaning any of the words they spew. The more people are kind to him, the more he feels like an awful piece of shit. He lies, he rips vows apart, and he schemes. He is not Hyoudou Issei anymore.

He licks his dry lips. He needs to focus. Focus. What will be his next step? What shall he do?

Nothing comes to his mind. Improvisation it is.

Issei throws his head back. He stares at the ceiling. He promised on his name, but _that_ name is no more. Therefore, he should free.

Uh.

He turns around and lies flat on his belly on the soft bed. He hugs his pillow and smells cinnamon and citrus. The soft pillow hides his smile. He is not that much of an idiot when he wants to be.

He closes his eyes and lets this victory washes away his worries, if only for a moment.

Issei blinks in the fiery light. He puts his arm over his eyes. A bleary sigh leaves him. His bed sure is comfortable today. Smells like cinnamon and nice other things. Almost Christmas-like.

Except it's not his. Issei opens his eyes and finds himself in not-his-bedroom. He squints. The Underworld is sunny today. He grumbles and squirms until his brain makes perfectly sure he is not getting anymore sleep.

Bashir. Lunch. 30 minutes. Shit.

He jumps from the bed, pushes the door and finds his benefactor on the other side.

Bashir is reading the newspaper, lounging on a chair as if it was a regal throne.

"I wasn't wrong when I said young people need sleep." Bashir looks up from his newspapers and the corner of his eyes is turned upwards, as if smiling.

Issei blushes.

"There's food in the fridge. You can reheat it in the oven." The older man informs the teen.

Issei looks around the kitchen to find the fridge and nods. The fridge is a very strange yellowish grey. "Thank you."

He makes his way to it, his back never completely to the table. Where Bashir is. Issei opens the fridge to find what looks like salad, spaghetti and a cake. He trusts the pasta more than the rest.

He takes it out and goes to the stove. A small pot is waiting for his food. He turns known chrome buttons, hears gas and sees a flicker of blue flame. His meal is quickly dumped in the pot. He covers it with a lid and waits.

The normalcy of it all is a marvel. He feels like he is back home.

Bashir, from the lack of sounds he has made so far, hasn't moved. He is still reading or staring at Issei.

Paper rustles close. "I thought about what you asked, about the rules around here. I'll give you one, and only one: do not pick fights."

"I don't intend to." Issei is serious about it. He snorts at the very idea of it. He doesn't want to die for a petty reason at the hands of some unknown Devils. It would blow his cover and everything else, really. Also, blood. They can't get his blood. Never.

Bashir makes a sound of agreement at his back. "Then your stay here shall be pleasant."

"I hope so." Issei chirps. The pasta smells rather nice. He might ask for the recipe. Or not. If the ingredients are weird, he might not react well. Better to not ask.

"I heard one of the sons of the Marquis is going to marry the Gremory heiress. What's her name?" Small, innocent talks will give him what he wants. The smell of her perfume still lingers in his mind from his last dream. She cried and yelled at him in that one for taking stupid risks.

"She is no heiress." Bashir comments.

Issei turns a button until the flames that licked his pot disappear. He tilts his head to see his host better. Bashir sees the question hanging on his lips. "It would put her family in an awkward situation if the son of the Maou doesn't inherit the name."

"Really?" Issei is curious now. What happened in this world? He looks earnestly at Bashir.

The ashen-haired Devil closes his newspapers for real. He watches his guest settles next to him before he continues. "The Maou gave his birthright away. He was the firstborn. It is only right and just that his son receives it."

Issei doesn't quite follow the logic there. He frowns.

"As for her name…" Bashir pauses and his gaze glazes over. "I'm sorry to say that I don't know. Busybodies would know."

Issei doesn't know if it is contempt or humor that makes Bashir say that. He supposes it is normal for a Devil to not know everything about everything. The name of the Gremory heiress is, apparently, considered tabloids material. It kind of makes sense. Like the royalty in Japan.

"Is she going to marry the heir?" Issei is still going to milk every bits of knowledge out of his bookshop owner before he goes to read a tabloid.

"No, no, I believe the heir is contracted to another. She is to be the bride of the second or third son."

"Why?" Issei asks (but he knows the answer, he knows, he _knows_. Blood purity and power.)

"This marriage is important for our territory and theirs. You see, the Gremory have complete power on the rivers that irrigate our fields. Oh, there are other reasons; I am sure, but this the one I know of the most. Let me show you a map." It isn't quite what Issei thought he would hear. It is a charming reality.

Bashir excitedly leaves his chair and marches to another door. He comes back a few seconds later with maps bundled in his arms and joy. Issei wonders who's taking care of his shop before he drowns in the drawings Bashir displays on the table.

They spend the next hour talking, bent on maps, fingers pointing foreign names and talking about who lives where and why. Issei soaks in knowledge. He strains his ears to hear everything and tires his brain so he remembers them too.

Their minds circle and wander until his belly makes embarrassing sounds. His hands go to it. He awkwardly massages the hungry beast.

Bashir straightens up with a chuckle. "You should have stopped me. When I get going, I don't see the time turning."

Issei doesn't say he would have listened forever. A real Devil that has lived in the Underworld for all of his life is far better than books.

Instead, he dumps his now cold pasta into a plate and eats silently, eyes on maps. Red sauce that vaguely tastes like wine (he isn't sure about that one. What is wine supposed to taste like anyway?) plasters his T-shirt.

Bashir gives him an embroidered serviette that feels too soft and too pristine to be used for him with a chuckle.

His thumb caresses the flamboyant Glorygold stitched on a corner. The flower glows and dances under his finger.

"Mister Mumtaka, is the Glorygold really extinct?" His question is asked out of pure curiosity this time.

Bashir stops in his movement to tuck a map lovingly back into his arms. "In Devil's territory, yes."

That tickles Issei's imagination. Does it exist in the Human world? "It still exists somewhere else?"

"Well," the bookstore owner turned teacher starts slowly, as if searching for words, "we do not know with certainty. The Crows don't care for flowers or nature. They destroy and plunder. If they do have some Glorygolds, it would be by accident. No, for such a fragile flower, living under the shade of their dark wings could not be possible. As for the Forest... there might be some in its recess. Only dead fools know."

Bashir rolls the maps and tucks them in his arms. There's a finality to his words. The Glorygold has been dead and buried for too long, here.

"Have you heard about the Forest?" He asks, out of the habit he seems to posses that led them to talk for hours. He has glanced at Issei many times, asking him if he understood everything. If he did not, they dwelled on a new detail.

Issei squints and thinks. A vague impression of the name seems to linger. "Yes. I think I saw it somewhere."

"In _Earl Amon's vicissitudes_?" Bashir asks. It is a strange name for a book resolving solely on simple geography and history of the Amon's territory, but Issei had seen weirder titles since.

"Yes." Probably. The bookseller knows his books better than Issei does.

Bashir turns towards his guest turned student, mirth gone, replaced by stern seriousness. "The Forest is part of the Underworld, but it is not part of the Devil's territory or anybody's for that matter. It has its own Lord and own rules. It is a very dangerous place for those that are not His subjects."

"Even for the Marquis." Issei asks and states.

"Yes." Bashir puts an old map showing the rivers of this part of the Underworld back into its coffer. "Only fools and the strongest among us can boast about having stalked under its shade and survived to tell the tale. And the Hunters."

Issei feels the capital on the word by the way Bashir let his warm accent itch up.

"Hunters?" The boy asks, foreign name rolling on his tongue.

"Ah." Bashir wave his free hand, a depreciative smile on his face. "Hunters belong in tales of old. Older than the Glorygold. They were the ones who had the right to walk under the Forest's shade. If they still live, they certainly stay away from our cities."

Issei hums. What mysterious creatures they must be. He ahs never heard about them in his dreams. Another new thing to add in his notebooks.

"Why the sudden interest in flowers, my young friend?" The question startles Issei out his thoughts.

Why, indeed?

"I was just wondering." The teen's scarred thumb still plays with the flower on the serviette. It feels important to know about the beloved flower of the Phenex.

"What did it do?" The boy asks, twirling the serviette so light can dance with the flower too. It changes ever so slightly in colors. From fiery yellow to mellow orange to raging red.

"It could provide light in the darkest place and balm to wounds in the darkest hours." Bashir seems to be recounting a story more than stating facts. It might be the reality of it. A flower so old it became a thing of myth more than reality.

It sounds as magical as it can get.

Bashir sits back on his chair. He fiddles with the worn out corner of a plastic map. "If you want to know more… In the matter of medicine, I am not the best source of information. I have a friend, an apothecary. He might be able to answer your questions, young friend. Go there."

Issei munches on his last bite of pasta. He nods as he gulps. Bashir is giving him on a platter what he would have asked to know anyway. This Devil is wonderful.

"Thank you." Issei is grateful. For the hospitality. For the food. For the kindness offered without a price. He wonders if the Devil can perceive it.

"Do no thank me, Issei. It is only normal to do this." There's something new, something closer that wraps together when Bashir utters his name gently. It doesn't bother Issei as much as it should.

Bashir clears his throat and his emotions. "It is open right now, if you want to go. Walk in the castle's direction from here. The apothecary is at the foot of the hill, on the right corner of the last street."

Issei puts his serviette down. He tilts his head and stares at his almost pristine plate. He has seen no castle while he wandered the streets of the city. A castle is supposed to be easy to see, right?

"Can I have a map of the city?" He saw no castle, but a map can be trusted when his eyes cannot. It's as good as he can get.

Bashir good naturally excuses himself for his poor memory. Of course his young friend cannot know the city very well yet.

Issei smiles and washes his plate. He leaves quickly afterwards, wallet and map in his pocket and other possessions left in the bedroom he was lent.

After a few streets and still no castle in view, Issei takes his map out. He follows the names and the streets to a point Bashir drew, waddling his way through the Devils walking briskly.

He doesn't stop, not even for the peddler who promised him luck in his tombola. He finds himself at the foot of a hill, as predicted. The tall houses are tightly connected, with a few narrow passages between the mellow orange bricks. Flowers are hung high to every wall, following sculpted patterns in the rock. It smells lavish.

Issei looks up from the pavement and the flowers to see-

There's a blur.

A very big blur. A very, very big blur.

Issei looks down.

The Phenex castle is supposed to be there.

He looks up.

Still a big blur.

He cannot see the castle.

He turns the last right corner before the blur and finds the apothecary. Well, the big blur where it should. Issei can clearly see the door, and that's about it. The door is shrouded in a blur of colors.

The teen purses his lips. He approaches the door and when no demons pounce on him (what is he even thinking, he is in the Underworld… devils live here, Issei.), he pushes the glass door. He finds himself in a movie set. Issei, when he heard the word apothecary, just thought Bashir's quirky formal language was playing with his ears. He thought he would end up in an Underworld pharmacy. Something close to his own, up in the Human world.

He is in an honest to God apothecary. The kind he could only hope to find in the deepest corners of Japan or in the oldest parts of Kyoto, doing their trade one client at a time, offering mysterious plants with miraculous effects. The kind he saw in movies depicting olden times.

There's a guy behind the counter, looking bored out of his mind. He stares blankly at the dried plants set next to a very old register with bronze buttons and a little bell that hangs loosely on its side, ready to chime when the register is open.

Glazed eyes blink and come into focus. "Hello."

"Hello." Issei has barely the time to answer before the man is back to staring at the plants as if they killed his mother. Well, that's a sure change from Japan. Nobody is yelling 'welcome' at him. It is a different pace. He has to adjust.

Issei moves slowly towards the counter. His hand comes close to the dried plants, not quite touching them nor knocking on the wooden surface, but certainly making his presence known to the apothecary.

"Mister Bashir Mumtaka sent me here, sir. He told me you could answer my questions." It sounds to quick to be understandable, but at least the sentence is out.

The man looks up. His heavy lids shadow eyes that rack over Issei's figure. He sighs through his nose deeply. "I suppose you are one of his lost lambs."

"I am." Issei doesn't let himself be offended by the name. He is a lost lamb alright.

"Fire your questions, kid." The man says, waving his hand lazily. Uninterestedly.

He breathes in and fires. "What kind of medicine would cure a cancerous tumor, sir?"

The man raises his hand high before Issei can say more. He reaches for something under the counter. He sits down on the stool he grabbed. He fidgets to find a comfortable position. Finally, he puts his elbows on the counter and supports his chin with his linked hands. "Are we talking about a human's condition?"

Well, Issei has his attention now. That can only be good. "Yes, sir."

The apothecary grunts. "Cancer. Fucked illness. Your own body derails cuz' of one cell."

That's not something Issei needed to hear again.

Sharp eyes and a sharper tongue start dancing. "Where is it?"

"In her brain, sir."

The man waves his hand dismissively. "Stop calling me sir. Size?"

"A small coin, si-." Issei clamps his mouth shut. He shows the size of it with his thumb and index, like a doctor did once upon a time.

"It's been there for?"

Issei thinks about the time it was discovered. He counts months. It feels like a lifetime ago. When he was still a kid. "1 year. No, 2 years."

The man grunts again. Issei's heart does loop in his chest. Is it a good grunt? A bad one? How is he supposed to fucking know? "Any special effects?"

"She lost her lucidity. She is in- she's not here anymore. Sometimes she mixes people up, sometimes she believes she is somewhere else." Issei fumbles with his words. At the end, that's all he is able to say. Even now, he can't talk about it.

"Dementia, then." The word sounds like the end of the world.

"…yes."

The apothecary unlinks his hands. He stretches his left arm in front of him, brows thoughtful. "To cure cancer, you would need, like, something potent. Strong enough to kill it and the patient if she or he is not strong enough."

The Devil shakes his head. Issei stays still. "I have nothing for her."

"Are you sure?" He has to try. He has to ask.

"Listen, kid. We're talking about a human who lost her mind and most probably her health. All the things in this store or in the Underworld are too strong for a feeble, ill human. It would cure her alright. It would also kill her. It's not a good idea to let Magic wanders where it had never been before."

Issei leans in until his hip is pushing the counter. It will soon start to creak in reproach. "What about the Phoenix tears?" His voice is a whisper.

The man's eyes soften, perhaps because he thinks he has been too harsh. Perhaps because he wants to humor the kid in front of him. He sighs and answers. "That is not something you will find on the market. Only a few lords can boast about having it in their apothecary."

"Would it be possible to get Phoenix's tears?" Issei breathes out, teeth bared and ready to plunge into his bottom lips.

The Devil leans back. "No."

Okay. Issei is pinning for the stars. He will just pin harder until his space rocket is set, ready to reach for them. "If I had some, would it cure her?"

The man's somewhat amiable look does not disappear, but his gaze scrutinizes the teen closely. "…Probably. The Phoenix tears can do wonders. Again, its potency could cause unwanted side effects."

"But not death." Issei hears himself say.

"Yeah. But, you know, like, obtaining some is a pipe dream. Anyway, the mortals that were given the privilege of using the Phoenix tears can be counted on my hand." The Devil show his hand and there's four fingers and a blur where his index should be. "They received strong health and longer youth, sure. It isn't always a wanted effect for humans. It does crazy things to their smoll brain." The man tapes his temple then whirls his hand with a high whistle.

Issei fiddles with the dried plants in front of him. Silently. Finally, he squares his jaw. "Thank you for your time."

The apothecary grumbles. "I did it for Bashir. Do tell him to stop sending me every lamb he picks up on the sidewalk."

Issei smiles, lips disappearing into a thin line. He most certainly won't. He wasn't picked up from the sidewalk, thank you very much.

He has one last question and then he is freaking leaving this place behind.

"What happened to your storefront?" He asks, almost waiting for the grunt and 'nothing happened to my storefront, weird kid'.

The Devil squints. His gaze rakes over Issei's figure once more. He measures and gauges and Issei feels awkward, standing there. "You can see it?"

"Yeah." Whatever it is. Technically not a lie. Issei crosses his fingers behind his back, just in case.

The apothecary's expression changes. It spells 'interesting' for him and 'troubles' for Issei. "Some bastard wrote dirty words on it a few days ago. I put a seal so nobody but can do that. One of my own. Pretty impressive, huh?"

"It is." Blurs are enchanted things/people. Issei files that in a part of his brain labeled 'Very important for survival'.

His answer seems to put the man in a happy mood. He gets up from his stool with a jolly hum. "You know what. I've got something for your human. It'll probably help her regain some of her mind. But it won't stop Nature."

Pills appear in front of Issei's nose.

"Every morning, before dawn. With the least amount of water possible." The apothecary instructs.

Issei prefers to not dwell on why the apothecary's mood changed so fast. He is on a mission. Think about the mission. Only the mission.

"Do you have anything to close small wounds or accelerate healing?" Issei wiggles his fingers in front of his face. He will soon have to change the thin bandages he put on top of his nails.

The apothecary stretches his back lazily. He turns around and his hand goes for a tiny bottle under the counter. "Green clay and Ashwagandha should do the trick for ya."

The bottle joins the pills on the counter. "Pour it on your wounds. A few drops should settle it. Do not wash afterwards, even if the smell is weird. Wait a few hours."

Issei is nodding so much his neck hurt.

"That would be fifty Feathers." The bell chimes and the register opens. The Devil has his palm open, ready to receive his money.

Issei fidgets. He remembered a small piece of information a bit too late. "I only have, huh, yen. Japanese money, hum, I think the rate is…"

The Devil raises his hand to silence the Human in not-disguise. "Just this once. Next time, I want to see Feathers or Gold."

"Yes, sir. Thank you." Issei goes the extra mile and acts polite towards the man of trade that seems mildly bipolar. Some respect has been lost then regained for the medicinal business today.

"Kid, what did I tell you?" The man grunts, but his eyes are not as harsh as they could have been.

"Sorry." He says as unapologetically as possible.

Issei reaches for his wallet. When he opens it, his fingers do not touch paper money but smooth, flexible bills. He takes them out. There is no more Japanese currency, only soft golden bills that shine in the light. A feather decorates each corner of the bill and a Phoenix soars to a better sky in the middle.

"Ah, see. You do have Feathers." Rough fingers with green and blue spots take his bills and count them. Most of it is put back in his wallet.

Issei's fingers tremble. Bashir is thoughtful beyond words. And frightfully efficient.

"Do you need a bag?" The seller is already reaching for one.

"Yes, please." Issei answers.

The apothecary hands him a bag that is definitely smaller and lighter than it should, considering what has been put inside. It fits easily on his palm.

Issei feels like he is holding something really special. A treasure that was carelessly given to him.

His mind boils with the possibilities. He stashes them carefully, memorizing each that pops up in his mind. He will have to write them down, just to be safe. He doesn't want to forget anything that could be useful.

He finds himself back in his bedroom fast enough. He doesn't wait to sit on his bed to pour the anointment on his hands.

He watches as his sealed wounds disappear, covered by new, pink skin. He brushes his skin with his fingertips. His attention turns heavy as he starts to massage his fingers. The skin stays solid and soft, a little bit tender around his nails. It doesn't liquefy, change colours or peel away.

It worked.

Issei moves his knuckles. He clenches his fists.

The haze has been lifted.

Phoenix tears are the key to her life.

His guts didn't lie. He didn't lie to Uncle.

(At least on that.)

He will find Phoenix tears.

* * *

Change is coming for Issei. What he considers right and wrong is shifting. A bit of shameless here and there doesn't hurt if he can get his way in the end, after all. Right?

A dangerous path, it might be…

Now, big question of the day, what does _Hayashi_ mean? It could be a hint; it could be me trolling all of you.

Abrupt change of subject: Bashir is important. Therefore, I cannot make him into a Deus Machina or a foil. He cannot be all-knowing. Have you ever met someone that was? That would be too boring for me or you.

I was thinking about it, and I think I am going to try and showcase the differences between Devils from different territories. I imagine people of the Phenex territory as direct. They know what they want and they will tell you. They say what they like and dislike easily. They like food. They like to banter and yell and about important matters. Their actions are motivated by their heart more than their brain. It doesn't mean they're brainless. It means they value feelings.

P.S. Y'all might hate me next chapter. Also, there's a poll on my profile!

30/11/2018


	7. Underworld Special Fruit

"Sir, where does the 'Encyclopedia of Hellish Beasts' go?" Issei jostles the enormous book in his arms. It weights a half-ton or so, the teen decides. His arms tremble and he moves the book around to find a more comfortable position for his poor muscles. One of its corners digs into his flesh.

Bashir, bent on whatever lists he needs to update, does not raise his head or stop writing. "Next to the 'Encyclopedia of Beastly Monsters'."

"Sir."

Issei is humbled by Bashir's formidable memory. Really, he is. The man can pinpoint the location of any book in the snap of a finger. He almost seems to instinctly know where he concealed his books in the shop. However, explaining where they are to others poor souls that have not been living there forever is an ordeal for the old man.

But being saddled with a book so heavy his arms tremble does not help his patience. Issei is on the edge of being exasperated.

Bashir raises his head, this time. He blinks, before realization dawns in his dark eyes. He shuffles and offers an embarrassed smile, as each time it happened before. "My bad. I think it's in the Monsters section. Try the second ladder on first shelf. Otherwise, it might on the second shelf, fourth ladder."

Issei is on his way before Bashir is done giving him directions. The 'Encyclopedia of Hellish Beasts' must either be filled with a lot of useless, superfluous words or a lot of important, read-this-or-die-when-you-meet-that-creature words to be this voluminous.

"Wait." Issei stops on his track as he is about to enter the Monsters' section. What now? "Put that book on the counter. I almost forgot; a client just requested it."

Issei's mouth does twitch. He trudges his way back, arms aching. He might have put the book down less gently than he should have on the counter.

Bashir doesn't comment. Issei massages his arms. His gaze wanders around the piles of books they have to organize. Inventory days are hard. His eyes leave the work he gave himself to stare at deeper corners and darker knowledge.

The teen has never seen Bashir's mysterious clients. Oh, people do come in and buy from times to times. The flow is not steady nor does it bring in much money, but it's there. It's the people for whom Bashir puts books on the counter that Issei has never, ever seen. The books are deposited on the counter; Bashir calls it a day after sundown and drags Issei out of the bookshop and into the kitchen for a late tea and a good conversation.

In the morning, the books are nowhere to be seen. Issei has snooped around to find them the first few days. Then Bashir politely called for his help each time he circled the counter. Issei was not thick-skinned enough to not understand the subtle message. Mind your business, boy.

Issei sighs. His gaze focuses on his work. "Sir. What is that place in the back?"

"Where?"

Issei points vaguely at a corner. From experience, he knows it doesn't have a specific place. It is all around them. He knows just pointing will not be enough. "On my first day, when I was browsing your books, there was a place I couldn't- I don't know how to explain. I walked forward, I'm sure of it, but everything was still the same around me."

His explanation sounds silly, but he does not understand what's going.

Bashir plays with the pen he holds. It stains his fingers as he twirls it around. Fountain pen, of course. It fits his character, Issei muses. Formal speech, flowery words. "That, young friend, is a part of the shop that isn't open. It contains certain books and special requests from my buyers."

Bashir doesn't offer to open this part of the shop to Issei's ravenous eyes. The teen doesn't ask. He prefers to paddle into easier topics.

"A lot of collectors buy? There aren't a lot of people coming and going."

"It is not because you do not see people coming and going that books do not." Bashir's shoulders jauntily move and Issei thinks he is stifling a chuckle. The older man turns around a second later. He is not repressing his amused smile. "And you are correct; most of my buyers are collectors of sort."

Issei weights a book in his hands mindlessly. "What kind of books do you sell the most?"

"Ah, all kinds. Some of my clients have specific interests. Health, fiction or that obscure author that only wrote 12 novels in his entire life and is impossible to track down for an autograph. Others simply love books enough to try and buy my entire shop in one afternoon." As he finishes his explanation, the old Devil shakes his head, a wry smile twisting his lips.

"You don't let them." It is Issei's turn to poorly stifle a chuckle behind his hand at the thought of Bashir, broom used as a sword, fending off people who are stumbling under the weight of all the books they're trying to buy. He has seen the courteous man becomes much less so when his beloved books are involved. He can lead by the nose indecisive buyers to books they wouldn't have chosen otherwise. He has calmly taken half the books requested by clients off the counter and told them to come back for them when they would be done with the first half. He will probably do it again, if given the chance.

Most clients bow down to his decision. Issei thinks it is partly because they're too dumbfounded by the bookseller's attitude and partly because Bashir can be overwhelmingly persuasive.

(Oh, you want that book? Friend, I'm sorry to say this book is not very pleased with your countenance this afternoon. You need something milder to go with your diet. See this one? _Treaty of the Flowers_. A marvelous romantic comedy, it is. Perfect for a late afternoon coffee. You like hazelnut coffee, don't you. You look like a nut lover.)

And other ridiculous arguments that, somehow, work. The souls that enter these walls adorned by Glorygolds leave poorer in Gold and richer in books, sometimes chosen by their own hands, sometimes chosen by a bookseller with twinkling eyes.

Bashir sighs. "And they curse me for it."

Issei hums in ascent. It is not all their clients that are enthralled by the bookseller. Some do try to leave with their chosen load of books. They're embarrassed by the ordeal they're put through when Bashir refuses to sell.

Bashir caps his fountain pen before it has the chance to spill all over his digits. He sets it down carefully. His face tells Issei he is in for another interesting lecture. "Books pull people to them. If you don't feel the pull, there is no point in buying them. They will only collect dust on some shelves. Books should be read and loved. Not abandoned to collect dust."

Bashir's tone got more impassioned with each new word that came from his book lover heart. Then, as if he remembering he is also a calm, collected man at heart, he clears his throat. His gloved hand goes to his throat and he covers his mouth in a rather bashful gesture. He turns away from Issei and weights a book. "Furthermore, I would be mightily bored without anything to do during the day."

Issei chuckles. He registers that his benefactor does not need his job to be able to live well. Bashir didn't say he needed the job. He said it relieves his boredom. That would explain the low-key lavishness in which he lives.

They go back to work afterwards. Issei got his answer. Forbidden grounds exist in the shop. Better not approach them. Noted.

He rolls his shoulders. The work here sometimes feels like the one at the sweet shop. Putting stuff on shelves, building his arms strength, updating lists, etc. It gets trickier when there's no specific spot for a book and Bashir's mumbled directions are not quite right. Issei will not complain about these. They're no big deals, when Bashir never asks when he is going to leave or shows a sign of impatience with his continuous presence inside his kitchen or his bookshop. Issei takes it as his silent ascent. He is welcomed until he has his shit together. Issei might just be taking his sweet time to do it. A free lunch is not something he can refuse with a clear conscience. A free bed and free lunch, who could possibly refuse the opportunity?

Not Issei.

And cherry on top of his magical sundae, Bashir Mumtaka does not force him to do anything, legal or illegal.

Issei doesn't have a strict schedule. He can pass his days on his bed. He is not going to, but the thought that he could makes him queasy. Issei is not a lazy ass. He ain't gonna become a parasite. (He is already in debt enough.)

As promised, he found an Underworld ID on his nightstand two days after his abrupt arrival. It is such a tiny thing, holding so much power. Issei could wander around now; he could leave and go on his own accord. He doesn't, but the thought pleases him. He is not chained. He often plays with it during lazy evenings, observing the way light is reflected on its smooth surface. It is not made of plastic. It is made of something sturdier, yet more flexible. It twists and bends when Issei experiments, but never breaks off in pieces.

The name that twists into Japanese when he caresses it makes him hum, content. Hayashi Issei exists. Hayashi Issei is going to kick cancer's ass into oblivion.

Issei wraps his workload for the day quickly. He bounces his way to his bedroom. A pile of books is waiting for him on the nightstand. He chose them himself, assured in his knowledge that has long as he doesn't wreck any, he can take as much as he wants from the shop.

They are all loosely linked by a common topic; the Phenex. Bashir, out of patriotic love or shrewd commercialism, has an entire section devoted to his beloved territory and its leaders.

Their sacred tears. How they came to power. Who they served during the Great War and the Civil War. What power they wield in combat. What power they can muster and wake if a threat appeared on their horizon. How other Noble Families consider them.

His research leads him to one inevitable conclusion. The Phenex is not a Noble family Issei can mess with. It would give the same result as poking a hornet's nest with his pinky finger, naked and both legs paralyzed. Issei wouldn't even be considered a threat in their eyes. A Human with a latent Scared Gear, no money, no connections and no special abilities to preserve his Humanity or life is no threat.

Issei, in the spurn of a sleepless night (oh, he did get sleep, but his head buzzed and his gaze swam for half a day, incapable of focusing.) chose a book on seals and runes. It told him that even entering the damn palace would be an ordeal. The runes encroached on the footsteps are, apparently, capable of keeping a behemoth out if need be. J.R.R. Tolkien depicted Behemoths well enough in his famed series. Issei only saw the movies, but he has no desire to try and force his entry into the castle.

The runes will probably also recognize his non-Devil's status. This could be bad for his life or his weak Humanity. Having red chess pieces shoved down his throat doesn't sound appealing. If they discover his secret; they might, knowing that runes are wild in their possibilities. The whole damn castle is a blur; Issei doesn't want to chance everything to desperation.

Thus stealing their Tears is out of the way.

They will never sell either. Their Tears are considered their greatest symbol. Only fools that see nothing as sacred sell symbols. And those fools cannot approach the Tears. Only members of the Phenex Family and Phoenixes can produce the precious liquid.

Phoenixes are not tame creatures that will cry at all occasions. They are not tame creatures that will let foolish, greedy beings steal the magic they created for their own. Phoenixes are dangerous; sharp claws, strong beak, fast wings and a fire that burns for days.

The Phenex are the same. They care for their own. That's it.

Issei reads and reads until his eyes burn and his brain cannot register the words his index traces.

He closes his eyes. Dots swim under his eyelids. He slumps and slides off the wall that kept him upright on his bed, to his soft mattress and sweet smelling pillows. He takes one and hugs it for what it is worth.

He is stuck in a loop. Oh, he found a probable solution to all their problems. Suck it, son, you're never going to get it. The Phoenix tears are a carrot held high in the air, too high for his wingless form.

Phoenix. What could he offer the Phenex Clan that would make them more agreeable…?

He twists and turns until he is on his side. He blinks and stares at the piles of books he will have to put back in their place sooner or later. His gaze drifts around. A golden flower, blooming on an unassuming piece of fabric, stares back.

He sits with a jolt. He jumps off his bed and trips to the chair where he abandoned his dirty clothes and a forgotten handkerchief. He rubs the flower with his thumb.

Glorygold.

The extinct flower that might not be extinct at all.

Of course.

Issei plasters his hands on his face and just kind of stretch his skin to get the stupidity out of his pores.

Tea time comes too quickly for Issei's boiling brain. He still leaves his room with a skip to his steps and too many half formed questions on his lips.

Bashir smiles at him behind his teacup. He pushes the tray of biscuits towards the teen as Issei settles down. The boy tamely takes a raisin cookie.

He dips it into his cup enough time for it to crumble and float around in his warm green tea. He swirls the liquid around before he goes for a taste. It is as good as usual. Issei gulps.

"What is there outside of the city?"

Look innocent, Issei. Innocent.

Issei smiles (does he need to show his teeth or would it be too much? How does a smile can appear innocent? Does he have to act like Tomou?) and drops it. If appearing innocent means mimicking Tomou's evil I-will-fuck-you-over-and-you-will-thank-me expression, than Issei prefers to look guilty.

Bashir does not scrutinize him like the teen imagined he would. He smiles and humors his young Human. "A great deal of smaller towns, forming a spiral around the capital. There's the Adour River to the east and the north. To the west and south, farmlands."

"Does the Phenex territory touch the Forest?" Issei drops any pretense of trickery and hopes with all of his soul his benefactor will not wonder why his protégé is suddenly asking what's outside the city when he had no interest in it before.

"Yes. That is one of the reason our lord is a Marquis. He protects a western March."

"Oh." Issei holds in the screams and bounces of joy. Hold it in, idiot. "Are there a lot of Marches?"

"Quite a bit. A dozen, I believe. However, none quite are as powerful as ours." Patriotic pride swells his words. Issei has long been accustomed to Bashir's pride in his territory. His shop is drowned in Glorygolds for a reason. The first times, Issei hadn't known how to react. Now, he lets the words go over his head.

The idea that Devils are proud of their territory, are more fractured than he first thought, is filed away. An interesting thought to develop on a later date, it is. Japanese are not as outspoken in their nationalistic pride. It doesn't mean that such of way of expressing love for one's country is bad.

The most important thing is that Issei has gotten Bashir going. The conversation can go anywhere now.

"Mister Mumtaka, is there a spell on the books?" Hopping from one subject to another is a form of art, Issei decides. One he has not perfected. His question stands awkwardly out.

Bashir sips his tea. His pristine cup makes a stark contrast against his bronze skin. "What makes you think that?"

"The titles change to Japanese when I'm near them." Issei is saying the truth. Everything he reads in the city twists from another language to Japanese. When he is far enough, it twists back to that mysterious writing.

"…Yes. There is a spell on the shop." Bashir says slowly.

"What kind of spell?" Issei has an idea, but he needs to be sure.

"Language spells. It is not all folks that can afford it. It is not all folks who need one either. Outside of the city, there are plenty of people that wouldn't understand your Japanese. To their ears, it will be nothing but gibberish. To your ears, their language will sound guttural and melodious."

Issei is not sure he understands the adjectives about Bashir's language. It must have shown on his face for Bashir exhales through his nose amusedly.

"That's how most foreigners label our language." He claims.

"How much for the spell?" Issei stirs the conversation toward a dangerous cliff. He must tread carefully, lest he be pushed by his companion.

Bashir does scrutinize him in his way, this time. All fluttering glances and slow movements. He eyes his young companion over his lukewarm tea. "Do you know how to use magic?"

"No." Issei has no idea how to go around _that_. The books he found consider the readers Devils. He is not. Channeling his inner power or tense his soul sound good on paper. Not so much in reality. What the heck those words mean, he has no idea.

Bashir shakes his head. "Without a grip on your magic, you can't use it. There's need for a fuel to the spell that you cannot provide."

Issei sinks into silence. He shift and eyes the cup between his pink hands. A word, _Fire_ , twists back to something readable for him, Japanese. He traces the characters with his thumb.

"You power the spell for the books?" Issei finally asks.

"There is a spell on the shop." That is not quite an answer to my question, sir.

The conversation ends there, like embers dying under ashes. It is unnatural. Bashir likes conversations that challenge his mind, his knowledge. Especially during his free time. To not continue on this streak, is concerning.

Issei puts down his cup. He flexes his knuckles.

He stays the entire night inside, not even mentioning that he might feel like going out. He acts normal, keeping his other questions for himself. He eats, jokes lightly and goes to sleep early with a new pile of books. He waits. His sleep is disturbed and restless.

Morning comes. Issei goes for his morning round around the city, as usual. Finally, he is out. He turns known corners and passing people who long started to wave at him as he walks past them. They know his calm pace and gentle manner now. He offers quick nods back. He is in no mood to smile. Distrust powers his steps. The black cat named Curiosity scratches his intestines.

When he finally arrives in the street he seeks, he still dares to dally around entrances, staring fixedly at display (antiques mixed with modern) until he feels awkward enough to shuffle a few meters away. A door opens; a man with a blur in his golden hair holds the door for him, thinking he might want to go inside. Issei ducks his head and plunges forwards.

A bell chimes as he passes the threshold. Issei holds in the jump in and marches towards his goal. Through too long bangs, he reads the name of the alleys. Potions, hygiene, glamour charms, spells, seals-

Spells.

Issei back paddles and dives into that pristine alley. Books stand proudly on shelves, sometimes accompanied by bottles and thick parchments with unreadable writing. Their price and name dance into Japanese. The teen slowly follows the aisle, pushing back his bangs to read more clearly weird appellations.

Footsteps follow him. Issei tenses and relaxes. Retail workers exist here too and they do not particularly want to eat him whole. They are more interested in his wallet. Or keeping up appearance to thus be able to keep their job.

Retail, whether it is in the Human World and in the Underworld, is not the easiest or the funniest job.

"Hello. Are you searching for something specific?" The man accosts him with an amiable smile and cupped hands.

Issei smothers his instinctive no. "Yes. A language spell. Something that I can use to understand other languages. Do you have something like that?"

"Of course. They are not in this alley. Follow me."

They walk out of the alley. Issei's stomach is doing pushups. They dive into the seals alley.

The worker picks a seal in a plastic case from the right shelf. He hands it to Issei with a smile. Issei doesn't reach for it. He bounced on his tiptoes. "A friend told me that I needed to master Magic to be able to use this spell."

The retail worker's smile changes. It stays, but the feeling behind changes. "Sir, it is not a spell. Second, your friend joked. High-grades spells need a constant, thin stream of magic. This is not a spell or high-grade. You can use it for a half-year without problems and without using any Magic. Anything it needs is stored inside already."

"Is that so." The teen murmurs. The worker nods.

Issei takes the seal from the Devil's outstretched hand wordlessly.

"How much for it?" He asks, not particularly worried about the price. Other things make him want to bite his nails until he has nothing left on his fingers but bones and blood.

The retail worker's fixed smile is back as he point to the shelf and to the seal's price that is clearly written for all eyes to see. Issei feels stupider and blind. "10 Feathers. "Anything else?"

Issei shakes his head and follows the Devil to the cash out. The seal quickly becomes his. He twists the thin paper, observing the red print (red like flooding blood, red like her.). Madness smells like pear and peach. He is not going to put on something definitely magical on him, is he?

"Do you want help putting it on?" The ever helpful worker gestures to his own throat and Issei knows what to do.

"No. I'm good." Issei presses the soft paper against his throat, seal facing him. The paper dissolves into his throat. The Human brushes his skin. Nothing. He can only feel warm, dry skin. His heart beats against his palm. There is no discomfort. No strain on his throat or wherever Magic is supposed to come from in his body.

Bashir lied to him.

"Thank you for your patronage." The Devil cups his hands.

Issei turns and walks away. The bell chimes again as he exists. Its sound is melancholic in the now empty shop.

The words on storefront that always sneakily twisted into Japanese when he approached them remain Japanese, whatever the angles he stares from. They are dead to his eyes. Simple characters etched on glass and wood.

Issei slowly walks back to the bookshop. There are more people on the street now. The door is unlocked when he turns the doorknob. Issei surveys the inside of the too big bookshop and sees absolutely nobody. Good. He has to think. Process the betrayal. Prepare.

It takes him an hour, slumped on a chair in the middle of the bookstore, head thrown back as his eyes observe the dancing light that passes through the blooming Glorygold on the ceiling. His neck hurts and creaks when he finally moves. He blinks back whatever he feels.

He shouldn't have expected true goodness from a stranger.

He tiptoes to his bedroom. What he does there is a blur in his brain. He repeats the motion several times, making sure that he has everything he needs. His hands go to his pockets, mechanically touching and recounting everything in there.

He is set. On an impulse, he takes from the nightstand the handkerchief with stitched Glorygolds Bashir gave him so carelessly on his first day in this cozy background. It is stuffed in his pocket too.

Issei leaves the bedroom, shoulders rolling and mind too calm. The panic attack is no here. It's the rest of the world that's crumbling, again.

"What do you want to eat for lunch, young friend?" A calm voice calls him, and yes, Bashir is standing there, rolling his sleeves back, ready for a battle in the kitchen.

Issei musters a smile. "Choose for me. You know the tasty food around here better than I do."

His voice sounds flat. He gulps sand and broken glass.

Bashir's lips tilt upwards. "Something tasty, then."

Issei smiles back. He shuffles his hands around his pockets. His fingers play with the little bag he stuffed there. A little, useful bag that can be filled with many more objects than should be possible. "I'm going for a walk."

The note he left neatly folded on his bed says otherwise.

Bashir nods. "Come back before dark."

.

..

...

beep.

beep. beep.

beep. beep. beep.

A line pulses up and down on broken mountains. A machine hums and buzzes in the silent twilight of a white room.

A door is opened. Light comes in, lighting dark corners and closed eyelids. It is swiftly forbidden entry as the door is pushed close.

Clothes rustle close to a bed.

"Hyoudou Hikari. She's been out for a few days now." An old voice, aged prematurely by heavy smoking and untold worries, states.

Cover rustles and thin feet are gently moved. A hand dips a washing cloth in lukewarm water. Another moves expertly a lifeless, pale body into another position. The body's white gown is removed. Thin, fuzzy black hair catches it and does not let go. They leave their old vessel without a goodbye.

Goosebumps appear on frail skin.

Warm water and soap sooth the goosebumps away.

"Her husband refuses to turn off her life's support as long as their kid is not found." The old voice says softly, as if it wished to furnish the silence of the body they are cleaning.

"What?" A younger voice startles bubbles away.

"He ran away." Older hands, calloused and rougher, reaches for a soft towel. It is pressed against cold skin.

Younger hands stop their motion, left to soak in not quite warm water. "That sweet boy who always came with flowers for his mom?"

"Yes."

"When did he run away?"

There's a pause, filled with the rustles of a clean gown and deep sighs. "The social services tried to ask her a few questions, but she wasn't all there when they came. She went catatonic a few hours later. From what I heard, he had been missing for a week. It was their old neighbors who sounded the alarm when they got not news of him after he was supposed to get to his father's house. His father had never called for him."

An angry huff slaps the silence. "And he dares to call himself a man."

"Enough said." The older voice tries to soothe.

"This is terrible." The young, inexperienced voice whispers.

An inaudible whisper follows that. It sounds forlorn. It sounds used to the way of the people who come in their world and leave in coffins.

"Do you think she can hear us?" The hopeful voice asks softly as footsteps move towards the door that keeps the light out and the darkness in.

"Her eyes are closed. Her ears aren't." The older voice murmurs back.

"Just a minute." The young voice is gentle. Gentler hands still right pillows and push a dried flower, pressed between two pieces of paper, under an almost dead woman's head. "He used to read her books until she would fall asleep, you know. He's a very gentle boy. He will come back soon."

A tired hum, neither a yes nor a no, follows and disappears as a door is opened and closed.

Eyes quiver under heavy eyelids.

Tick.

Tack.

Tick. Tack.

.

..

...

His sneakers hit the cobblestones rhythmically. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three-

"Magical Super Duper Cool Blast!" A shop, all windows and doors open to the street, is blasting the opening song of Levia-tan's 'Extra Adventures in the Underworld for the world to hear. An orchestra, full of bizarre stringed instruments and blaring percussions, floods the street with its music. People shake their head and move along the tempo, amused.

Issei ducks his head and hunches his shoulders forwards. The tempo of his sneakers goes from placid to erratic. He leaves the open street in the dust of his soles and regrets.

This decision, his decision, doesn't make sense. He is leaving everything behind, again. There's no vague plan this time. Hopeless is the name. Glorygold is the word.

Adventure. He is going on an adventure. Death is part of it. It makes the damn thing thrilling, doesn't it? Fucking, damning exciting. He is going to die at the end of his life, someday. He will make sure this someday happens after his mother has lived a long, long life.

He glances at his hands critically. His nails are almost at a normal length. It would be stupid to ruin them. It would be stupid to ruin his finger again after he spent money so they wouldn't be so. He stuffs his abused hands in his pockets. His ears buzz.

"Fruits! Fresh fruits from the orchard!"

Issei voices a tiny little noise. The shrill yell startled him more than he is comfortable to admit. He rights his shoulders and pays a bit more attention to his surroundings. It wouldn't do to be in accident or stomp on somebody's feet in a moment of inattention. Issei glares at the stall that woke him up without meaning to.

The fruit that the woman is holding up and putting in every bystander's face is familiar. A pear as green as young sprouts. Issei slows down and cranes his neck.

He knows the fruit. Bashir gave him some a few days ago. It tasted like lemon drops. It's not supposed to do anything to Devils (Issei double-checked with Bashir and a book on local fruits), but Issei felt kind of out the entire day. Drowsy.

"Give me one of those." Issei says when he is near enough to smell the sweet perfume of the fruits, but not enough to be punched by the enthusiastic seller.

Her smile stretches as her eyes glint. There are too many teeth in there. "A Welsh Pomcat?"

"Yeah." Issei grasps for his wallet.

"Anything else?"

"No."

Issei throws the money more than he gives it. The woman throws her fruit at his face more than she gives it in return. The hand that catches the wayward fruit aches and throbs. She was not gentle in her throw.

Issei wisely doesn't complain and goes on his merry way.

A few steps later, he is gnawing on tough skin. Better munches on a fruit that will make him drowsy than to panic. Better to be kind of out than to destroy his lips. He glimpses at his reflection in glass and mirrors. He pats his bangs back in a semblance of a normal hairdo.

Issei lets his feet lead him. He mutters goodbyes to known buildings and unnamed characters. He is going on an adventure. Yeah. The good kind. The kind he will come back alive from.

Issei approaches the western gates of the city. They form a massive arch made of stone. They seem to be made out of one gigantic block of soft bronze stone for there are neither seams nor lines to distinguish different blocks on the facade. Runes run along its arc, carved in the old stone. The outer rim, close to the sky, stays dormant. It is majestically useless.

They are the ones Issei can see.

The inner rim is nothing but a blur to his eyes.

The teen finds a somewhat clear spot. He observes the guards of the gate, shoulder nonchalantly pressed against a wall. His gaze follows them as they gesticulate, overseeing the continuous stream of people that enters and leaves the city, walking, running, driving over blurred runes. He watches as they sometimes seem to randomly pick a pedestrian out of the masses. On the right side, the people and blurs briskly leave the city on foot or in antique cars. Issei has seen some newer cars in the city; however, they were not numerous. The inhabitants of the city seem to prefer older cars. On the left side, same fauna, but other direction. They pour into the city somewhat orderly

The teen does not know their name, but their curves and massive forms indicate age. Things that, again, he would only have seen in a collector's garage or on TV in the Human world.

He twirls the stem of the half-munched green pear that tastes like lemon between his fingers. He is calm now. His heartbeat is too slow for the ideas that mingle in his brain.

He could walk on the good side of road and get the hell out of there. He has his ID. It's supposed to work. Supposed.

Issei moistens his chapped lips. His gaze lands on a younger looking guard that ever so repeatedly adjusts his well adjusted woolen red belt. Issei has seen him circling the gates, voice too loud and movements too brash. Finally, the guard goes to the small post annexed to the wall, all windows towards the gate and the flood that comes and goes. He takes a cup out from the post and drinks, eyes trained on people who sit straighter and go slower when they notice his intense gaze. He burns a hole in their head, trying to peek inside their mind to see illegal matters and falsehood.

At least, it's how it looks to Issei. The guard might just be very bored with his job or lost in thoughts of his beautiful wife.

Issei approaches the post and the Devil lazily, as if he had time to spare. He throws his Welsh Pomcat in a trash can. He cups his hands.

"The gates are impressive." He starts off-handedly, admiring the gates. He is not really speaking to the guard yet. If the man doesn't want small talk, he won't answer.

"They sure are! Everybody says that the first time they see them." Issei imagines the smug smile on the guard's face. He restrains his own smile. He tilts his head and glances at his new interlocutor.

"What makes you say I'm a first timer?"

The guard's hand forgets to adjust his belt and pats his nose instead. A little smile accompanies the gesture. "I've got a good nose. You smell like the Human World."

So that's what Bashir meant. "I was up a couple days ago. The smell hasn't left completely yet."

"You don't stink, dude. I've heard that a good bath with salt form the Adour River does magic to remove the smell, if you wanna try."

Issei accepts the advice with a serious nod. He will have to look into it. Hiding his scent could be a damn good idea.

His gaze lands back on the gates and he goes back to his act with a sigh. "It's a shame that only the inner rim works. The rest has taken on a more decorative purpose, now."

"What are you talking about?" The guard is staring at him as if he were a fool. He is not too far from the truth.

"The gates are never fully operational. The runes demand too much fuel to function properly in peace time for it to be worth it. Only the inner rim functions at all time." Issei explains tranquilly, as an expert would. Like Bashir does, most of the time.

Another guard chooses this moment to approach the post. He nods at Issei and cups his hands. "Your fire burns." He turns towards his junior. The distinction between the two is made clear when the first guard Issei fished nervously performs a bow. "That is something you should know already. Didn't you listen during your time in the Academy?"

"Yes, sir. I did, sir." The guard, fumbling in his nervousness to puff his chest out and right his not-at-all-slouched shoulders, is kind of cute.

"Not enough, apparently." Is the biting remark he gets. The older officer disappears into the post.

The seemingly young Devil withers on the spot.

Ah, the wonders of books. Issei chose his prey wisely. The man doesn't look like a bookworm and sometimes, appearance does not lie.

"You can't see them work?" Issei asks, as if he was curious about the matter.

Of course he can't. Issei is special in his inability to see what the seals and runes and whatnot magical thingies do. He can't see what they do, but he can see that they're here.

The guard fiddles with his belt. He eyes the orderly traffic in front of us, as if he wished a sudden accident to arise so he could leave. That won't do for Issei. "I'm not... well, I, sir, not I can't. Only specialists can, sir."

Issei smiles and changes the subject for mercy's sake. In appearance. "First day here?"

The guard stops staring at the people coming and going to frown, looking particularly miffed. "I've been a guard here for 2 years!"

"Oh."

The frown gets deeper. It looks like a pout. "Are you saying I'm bad at my job?"

It's part of the reason I chose you, brother. "You seem nervous." Issei settles on a less stinging answer. He must remain amiable.

"Are you afraid of your colleague?" Okay, maybe that wasn't amiable at all and totally tactless. Issei's having a bit too much fun watching the guard's face gets steadily redder. There must be a problem with his brain. He blames the fruit he took.

"Shut up!" His cheeks are redder than Sirzechs's hair. Impressive.

"You shouldn't be so affected." Issei offers.

The guard twiddles his fingers silently. Finally, he opens his mouth under Issei's watchful gaze. "He is a legend. I mean, a local legend." He says weakly.

"So you respect him very much." Issei remarks. He glances at his prey and mulls over his next words. They form easily in his head, but will they sound as good when he voices them? Hmm. He better tries than be caught with a fake ID. "Treat him as you would your other colleagues. Forget he is a legend and remember he is your superior. You'll not impress him by acting like a struck fool."

"F-forget-" The Devil splutters.

"Is he your teammate?"

The guard nods tamely. "Yes."

"Then he is here as your teammate and nothing else. There are you, him, me, and the all the duties you must accomplish. That is all." Wow. Some pep talk that was. Issei didn't know he had it in himself.

The guard splutters some more. He blinks and then his arms are crossed and his face is set into something Issei doesn't like. Uh oh. "Who is your Master for you to tell me how I should do my job?"

Issei, in a moment of stupid clarity, gestures towards the blur that looms over the city. The sleeping giant of a castle he doesn't dare to approach but dares to claim as his own.

"No." Flat out denial comes from the guard. Issei understand, really, he does. Who would believe a thirteen years old boy who seems fresh out of the Human World? He understands, but he needs the Devil to believe him.

"Believe what you want." Issei says diplomatically. It is easy to lie; he simply has to state vague truths and lets other extrapolate for him. Others do the entire job for him with their imagination.

Silence settles on both of them. One is openly anxious, playing with his belt and glancing at his companion, and the other is simply dying inside, one heartbeat at a time.

The guard caves in first. "Sir… how do you see the runes are working?"

"Top secrets. My master will be angry if I scatter them around." Issei says with a half-joking, half-serious tone. In his mind, he is patting the guard's shoulder. Books, friend. Read them and you'll know anything public there's to know about these damn gates. My Master is made of paper and ink. And yes, Bashir will be angry at Issei if he scatters the books around. Technically, very technically, Issei is not telling a lie. He hopes so. He crosses his fingers just to be sure.

"Oh." The young guard sounds just a tiny bit awed. Hook, line and sinker. "Sorry for asking, sir."

"It is not a problem." Issei says mercifully. Inside, he is dancing.

Issei is noticeably younger and not-so-clearly weaker, but the guard serves him a 'sir' in his every sentence now. The man dips his head and his gaze meets his frankly, head on, before it also dips lower.

Hmm. Respect has been earned.

Issei feels like getting naughtier. He dries his damp hands against his pants.

"Have a good day." Issei calls before he stalks pass the runes where he is supposed to walk calmly, in clear daylight, shoulder meeting bony appendixes harshly as the stream on the other side tries to push back to his side of the road. He is walking where officers are supposed to tread, overseeing the current.

The guard is on his heels.

"Wait-"

A hand brushes his shoulder before it retracts itself, as if burnt by a raging inferno. Issei stops on his track. He turns around, an eyebrow raised.

"Sir, your papers-."

Issei stares at him with his much practiced blank stare.

"Is everything good, officer?"

And the guard caves in, again. "Yes. Go ahead, sir. Have a good day."

Issei offers a smile and a tiny tilt of his head that could pass as a nod. The guard dips his head low.

Issei walks past the gates, observing the blurs. Unbeknownst to all, the runes that are carved in the rock shines softy as he waltzes his way under the massive arches.

He finds himself not quite out of the capital. The city does not end per say after the gates. It spouted out its walls a lifetime ago, but security is not the same outside of its proud walls. Or so Bashir said. Issei hops to the bus station by the side of the roads, stuck between a lopsided hostel that promises cheap deals and great beds and a restaurant that smells like tasty grease.

Issei pats his pockets for his wallet as he approaches the bus station. A bus is stationed there, waiting for passengers. The proud Phenex seal decorates its sides.

Issei knows he is lucky when he is told by the man selling the tickets that yes, indeed, the bus goes all the way to the western border of the Phenex territory. It will cost him, though. Issei slides his money on the counter wordlessly.

He receives a small ticket in exchange and off he goes, to meet his destiny.

He looks one last time at the flaming heart of the Phenex territory. On this side of the gates, words are engraved over the outer rim of runes in beautiful, looping letters.

 _Welcome are the ardent and spirited flames_

Issei swears to see those words again.

He grips the metal door and hops inside the bus. He slides his ticket against the seal on the podium next to the driver. It feels like he is passing his bus card on a machine to pay his ride. The chauffeur nods at him when the teen says hello and off he is to the back of the bus.

Issei surveys his new habitat for the hours to come. It is not even nearly full. No blurs.

The speaker buzzes. "Attention passengers, we are leaving in 15 minutes." The sound is cut off with a high-pitched creak.

Issei sinks in his seat, in the very back.

Bashir will be so mad. A miffed bird, all ruffled feathers and squealing beak.

He snorts.

The bus departs after one last frazzled passenger settles down. They depart and Issei knows there's no coming back from that.

There's something freeing about the vast plains in which his bus roars and soars.

He's out. His choices are his own. He knows the Forest might the worst place ever for him. There might be no such flowers in there. There might only be death awaiting him. The Forest will be a chaotic place, compared to his little suburbs. Issei has never camped. He doesn't know the first thing about wild life, and knowing the supernatural of his dreams, it can only be much, much worse than in the human world.

Only fools go in there. Only fools come back.

Hayashi Issei is a fool.

He has no time. No plans. No nothing. His belongings are in the home of a man who lied. He has to try anyway. Better live and feel while he still can do so freely.

Issei admires the few towns they encounter. They reside on soft golden hills, like scattered mushrooms left to their own device. Issei doesn't know the name of the cereals that stand proudly in the warm breeze that seems to never leave the spring land of the Phenex.

Perhaps it is wheat, perhaps it is hay, and perhaps it is something that doesn't exist in his world. He wants to run through the fields.

His eyelids close and a dreamless sleep takes him faraway for a few hours.

* * *

It's the last stop. A tiny bordering town at the end of a bumpy gravel road, at the ends of boundless fields. Wisps of mist leaves the trees wet and the ground, damp.

They changed driver midway. He cups his hands tiredly at Issei before he makes a bee line for the inn where he is staying. Issei walks slowly behind him. When Issei thought of leaving, he didn't comprehend that it would take 8 hours to get to the farthest town before the Forest. The others passengers that stayed with him till the end are already there in their respective homes.

Issei turns his head towards the darkness.

The Forest is there, looming over the somber horizon. Sundown has since long fallen. Sunrise is close. The sky is made of light and lighter hues of blue. Stars twinkle as they disappear.

The earth of the street feels soft under his feet. He shivers.

He has never been in such a remote place. Only one electrical light, brighter than anything he has ever seen anywhere, shines over the town.

He steps outside of the sleeping town. It's not difficult. There are only a dozen houses or so, two serpentine dirt streets and a big building in the center of it all.

The dirt road he follows goes from crisp gravel that rolls and makes noises under his soles to soft soil. He marches. The grass grows taller around him, reaching for his hair with the morning breeze. He is no longer surrounded by fields of grains.

The Forest is in front of and… well, it looks like a normal forest. On its edges, there are no looming trees, no drooling beasts; no anything that looks like it would like to eat Issei. It resembles the one he walked in when his parents had a moment of respite and felt like taking him to see something else than grey buildings and old movies in decrepit theaters. He vaguely remembers fat squirrels and throwing pinecones and pebbles at them to see them scramble. He was a pretty good shot back then.

He did that until one red squirrel, in lieu of disappearing high in tangled branches, jumped on him, claws outstretched and jaw wide open and full of tiny and sharp teeth.

His scream had been so shrill and loud; it scared the beast away and brought his flustered parents to his side. His mother laughed at him, after they checked every inch of his unblemished skin with worried eyes. She pinched his nose and told him to not bother the squirrels, and they wouldn't bother him. He has done so since that episode.

Issei breathes in the crisp air and continues thinking about her.

He skips over a protuberant root.

His nose is smashed.

His head bounces back.

Issei jumps back, massaging his nose with a whimper. Bad. Bad. This is bad. His pants calm down to deep breath when he is sure no blood will seep out from his hurt face. He looks up and down, searching what hurt him.

There's nothing, but the root on the ground.

There's nothing but a root that comes out of the ground in the middle of a path. There's no tree anywhere close by. Why is there a root? He taps it with his foot. It's there. Real.

He squints.

The path in front of him is not exactly clear. He squints some more. The sunset illuminates the fields now. There's a blur. There's a freaking blur where the rest of the path lays.

He touches with the tips of his fingers the thing in front of him. It feels compact. Dense. The teen applies one palm against it. His arm trembles, taunt. He can't lose one arm because he touched something he shouldn't have.

His palms meet something cold and dead. He pushes. The thing doesn't push back. It stays firm, unmovable. There is an invisible wall in front of him.

Of course it wouldn't be that easy. Darn it.

* * *

14/12/2018


	8. Nine

Winter sun sets and rises on Rainbow. Grey dew glistens on short grass and high trees. People do their things, readying for the winter harvest and preparing the fallow lands for the spring plowing. Farmers start bonfires on their lands, burning useless hay and fertilizer. Large burnt circles carve the soft landscape.

Women prepare for the solstice celebration. They sew new clothes, adorn the interior of their houses with bright strips of clothes that form elegant arches and pick winter flowers who dance in the distant light of the cold Sun. They bake light bread stuffed with candied fruits and sprinkled upon with sugar whiter than the fresh snow that never graces their lands.

Men take care of the exterior of the houses. They wash the burnt walls that protect them from the infamous wind that lords over the plains, put light branches of young trees over the doorstep of their humble abode and steal a piece of sweet bread when they think their wife is not aware. Finally, they consolidate the walls with the help of the town's two magicians. They need to be robust to withstand the might of the rolling hills.

Children, a dozen of them in total, help out when their mothers call for them. Otherwise, they busy themselves, gliding on warmer winds and flapping their tender wings in colder ones to stay up in the air. They play tag, looping and laughing and faking crashes under the watchful guard of the whole village.

The elders watch, helping when their help is needed (and silently rejected. No one can make the soft bread better than an old grandmother who spends her days waiting anxiously for a grandchild or spoiling rotten said grandchild. The ones who have the ability will certainly not step forwards. They would only face the thunder of grammas used to lord over the village.).

Life is simple. Squabbles and celebrations rhythm the life of the town.

One building, older than the most ancient house in Rainbow, towers over all. It looks made of one block of orange red rock, and characteristics runes along the foot of its walls. There, once, resided a lord. Now, it is empty of lord but filled with good-for-nothings. Or so the gramps who tell stories to occupy the children say.

A man, clothed in dark garbs clearly meant for practicality more than fashion, sneezes. He grumbles and pulls his scarf around his neck tighter. Winter is not as sweet as it could be. The wind has decided to be cruel this year. It comes from the north-east, stopped by nothing but the frail thickets that keep the soil encroached to the ground and deers and rabbits well-fed.

The man breathes in. Cold wind hits his face, as if telling him to walk faster. It smells of the Ardour River, dew and foggy morning and heavy silt that makes the ground caves and grows treasures. The wind is an all powerful master, creating tornados and creating storms magnitude stronger than anything else on the continent. When it chooses to be kind, it brings treasures in its pockets and rain on its scarf. Today, the Ardour River's smell, which flows far in the north and winds its way through the soft hills and flat plane along monotone landscapes and towns, overpowers senses.

A lanky teen brushes past him. His coat swivels behind him and brushes Ansel's. They exchange a glance and a nod coupled with a swift cup of their hands. The teen's steps do not falter. Neither does his. It is too cold outside for small talk. The bus stationed at the curve of Main Street, just before the first hill that surrounds their valley, honks. The teen speeds up.

The local man recognizes the teen for his unfamiliarity. He watches as the brown-haired kid climbs the steps of the bus and stores the fact that the kid is leaving in the gossip's cupboard. His brother was right. He can almost hear his coarse cackles in his ears. The news will entertain him for a while. The gossip mill will also turn at a rapid pace. The Old Man's relative sure is a bit rude to leave just before the Great Night. Maou knows the Old Man needs some company to ease his cranky bones and crankier soul.

He snorts and decides he will not be the one to break the news to his extended family. The Old Man is capable of doing it himself. Facing inquisitive old ladies and gossip-thirsty men is not part of his job description.

The Devil scurries into the tall building, decision taken. Another matter, more urgent, washes away the memories of the teen's face off his mind. The runes shine softly when he walks upon the doorstep. They welcome him in. He pushes the door close, firmly keeping the wind out of the mansion where it cannot enter for there are no cracks in the walls and no holes in its magic coat.

His one and only colleague, Vad, is drinking from a steaming cup of coffee, slouched on a venerable chair that has seen better years and plumpier masters. His boots-clad feet are proudly propped on a rickety desk that seems to slowly slump under the sheer amount of paperwork and junk it bears.

They cup their hands in greeting so fast it could have been nothing but an insult if they hadn't been doing it that way for years.

The man in black eyes his colleague and gags. "Still drinking that stuff?"

"To each his addiction. Want a cup?"

"When pigs fly."

The Devil slouches back on his seat with a nervous shrug. "Your loss, Ansel."

Ansel grunts. He stand unmoving infront of his own desk before a jolt makes him start pacing the flour of their small work room, from the couch turned into a makeshift and uncomfortable bed, to the junk that neatly litters half the space there, to his coffee-drinking colleague and then back to the bed. He would probably pace the flour of the entire mansion if the other rooms had not been locked and out of use for years. Thus he wears out creaking parquet that whimpers softly at the abuse.

Hi colleague wiggles his feet, his eyebrows following his lower appendage's dance. "Whatcha doing?"

"There was something weird by the wall."

"You were by the wall when we still have to consolidate the Old Man's house? Do you have any idea how much he bugged me about his dear house and his beloved garden-" Vad's face turns shade after shade of red. He puts his down his cup and points at him accusingly. "Of course you do, that's why you fled!"

Ansel does not answer. His itchy feet led him to the western wall. He stares at the dots of unknown origins that stain the wall. Finally, his hand grazes the rough surface, brushing the white, decaying paint. He pushes. Runes appear and shine, moving like snakes in sand, through the wall, appearing and disappearing into the thick rock. They move in circle, closing on Ansel's hand.

"What kind of weird?" Vad asks him, finally asking a good question.

Ansel does not answer. He does not know.

Vad rights himself on the chair. Hot coffee leaves his cup in his hasty movement. The chair under him creaks as it bends back to its original form. "Something happened to the wall?"

Ansel stays silent. He feels his own anxiety mount as his coworker's nervousness taint the air with its heavy perfume. The wall under his hand moves and caves in. A black orb appears under Ansel's hovering hand, lying on a cushion of crimson velvet in a small alcove.

Ansel squints into the ball. Another head hovers by his shoulder, squinting into darkness too. Thankfully, the glass orb remains unmoving, dead to the world and the magic poured into it. They sigh in unison.

"It wasn't breached." Ansel comments.

Vad settles himself by on his chair with a lopsided smile. "You got me worried for a sec. What bugs you then?"

"There was someone. I couldn't find them." Ansel grunts.

"Maybe they were quick enough. Pretty sure it was one of the kids. They have this little game of courage where they need to prove they're no chicken by approaching the wall. It's dumb, but they like it."

Ansel shakes his head. "There were no traces going anywhere. They stopped at the wall."

Vad blinks. "That's weird."

"You and I are the only ones who have access to the key, Vad."

"Are you accusing me?" Vad's tone goes up and higher still. Ansel recognizes his skittish coworker well there. There's a reason they are not the very best of friends, whatever Vad proclaims, after so many years of forced cohabitation.

Ansel smacks his lips. Vad, going into the Forest alone? No. "No, of course not. You're not suicidal enough to go in there."

"You're damn right, you piece of shit."

They fall back into silence. Worries and possibilities, most imaginary, plague their weary mind.

Vad toys with his empty cup. He glances at his coworker from time to time. Ansel cannot say if it is his normal jitters acting up or if he has something to hide. Vad, going alone in the Forest? No. Vad, giving access to somebody else? Not impossible.

"Not like it could be a Hunter." Vad says with a straight face.

They share a somewhat conniving glace by their standards. Vad guffaws a second later. Ansel pinches his lips together.

Long after their little exchange, the officer of the wall, a glorified position for a good-for-nothing, as his old folks once said, brews himself a cup of good tea and observes the clear sky. Nothing can breach the wall. It is common knowledge, a common value, a common hope. The beating heart of why Devils dare to live so close so it. It is not exactly true. The design of the wall is not without flaws. And the things on the other side, too, could be a problem... He decides to make one last round before dark, just to be sure.

There's a very understandable reason there's a wall between the March and the Forest. No one wants even one of those things on their side. People around here are not stupid enough to let a usable door close by. They locked and bricked up the thing a few centuries ago; when it became clear no good thing would come out of that damn revolving door. They could bypass the wall, but so could the beasts on the other side if they pushed hard enough. Their quick thinking saved them a lot of grief.

Then he will go to the Old Man's house and reviews Vad's doings. The Old Man will never let them off if his house has the smallest tremors during the Great Night. Knowing the violence of their rolling hills, he will probably have to add some more strength to the runes.

His cup emptied and his list of chores settled, Ansel adorns his coat and trots. The Great Night will be all too soon upon them.

* * *

The bus driver adjusts his seat. Lower, lower- ah fudge. He plays with the tiny handle (why are they so damn tiny when he is so tall. Damn companies. They never think about the users and always about the money they must make with the cheapest material available-) until his legs feel comfortable working with the pedals. The drive will be hecking long. Not being comfortable before the Great Night would suck big time.

Honestly, who is even going to take the bus from the very last stop of their land? Technically it is not the last town before the end of their territory, but nobody can talk about towns beyond this point. Rainbow is small, but not as small. He had to take up the job because he is the youngest. His freaking coworkers dumped the night's duty on him. He could be eating sweet bread, but here he is, driving a freaking empty bus. Sure, the pay's better, but, come on, sweet bread!

Against his past conclusion, one kid approaches his bus, not to jeer at him and his lack of sweet bread, but to steadily step into his kingdom. He jolts his too big for him bag on his shoulders, playing midlessly with one strap.

"Your fire burns." He says softly, hands cupped. His ticket is caged between his fingers.

The driver cups his hands. "Your fire burns."

He takes the ticket, does not really review what it says beside the important part. The kid is going to the capital. They're going to be together all day then. "Sucks to be traveling on the solstice's eve, doesn't it? Everybody is eating sweet bread at home and lighting bonfires for the Great Night. Well, if we're lucky, we might see some big ones on the road."

The young stranger hums. He offers no real other answer.

The driver takes no offense. Kids who weren't born when the Maous put that fake Sun up in the air often act off before and during the Great Night. His little sis' is a nightmare. She literally jumps on walls. And eats his share of sweet bread, the little demon.

With a shudder, he turns the key in its lock. The motor of the bus roars to life. He waits a few more minutes. No more passengers climb the steps. Slowly, he pilots his bus out of the curve. He glances at his wing mirror and silently bids his goodbyes to the wall and the Forest and Rainbow. Arches of primary and secondary colors dance as the Sun's beams hit the invisible Wall, twisting into a colorful goodbye. He knows that when he comes back, the rolling hills of the Great Night will have changed the landscape. Houses will stand proud, yet they will be displaced by their earth ocean.

After a few hours, the kid is still silent and so is the driver. The kid is in the far back, his mop of brown hair the only thing visible.

A thought sparks the driver desire to talk and makes him forget his unbreakable vow to not be the first to break the silence. "You don't happen to have sweet bread, do you?"

There are movements behind, and the driver unashamedly spies the kid in his rear mirror. He is up now, taking something out of his bag. Is it-? Yessssssssssssssss.

The driver smiles. "You don't have to, ya know."

His hands betray his words. One holds the wheel straight on the straighter road while the other reaches for the offered treat unabashedly.

He calmly takes the slices bread out of its plastic bag. He takes one and bites into it. He might have moaned a bit. It might just have been the kid who made that bizarre sound when he tried his bread.

"Good stuff." The driver rumbles. Almost as good as mom's, he doesn't add.

"It is." The kid answers perfunctorily. He nibbles his slice like a small animal would.

And that's it for the rest of the journey.

The drive is smooth. Nobody wants to be on the road for the Great Night's Eve. He only has one passenger. They do not take lengthy pauses.

They are at their last stop, the capital, sooner than expected. The driver scratches his head and thinks that driving on such a day is not so bad. No crazy drivers. No crazy passengers. He even had sweet bread.

And as soon as the Sun disappears beyond the horizon, the Great Night will start. He will have a whole week to sleep, burn old woods to light the Great Night, honor his ancestors and the fallen, and eat yummy food.

His stomach can't wait for the yummy food.

He cups his hands at the boy he drove all the way to the capital. The kid mimics his gesture sleepily.

"Have an awesome Great Night." The driver says the sacred words happily.

"You too." The kid tilts his head, but doesn't answer with the right words.

The driver does not take offense. The kid is sleepy. The Great Night really does take its toll on youngsters, eh.

With one last wave, the driver quickens his pace to leave the bus station; his sweet mother might just have saved a piece of bread for him. He just needs to get there before his ravenous siblings find it and try to gulp it down.

He doesn't turn back for one last look, mind occupied by sweet bread and sweeter times. Thus, he doesn't see the kid he drove during the Great Night's Eve stands motionlessly on the spot where he abandoned him. He doesn't see him waver, feet gliding in one direction than bouncing to another. He doesn't see the way he barks a chuckle, hits his forehead with his open palm and heads in a final direction, towards the guts of the capital.

The adolescent, for really, he is too old to be a child, walks calmly to the gates. There, he passes under the arches that welcome ardent and spirited flames in its heart. Twilight tints the old rocks purple. No one notices him. No one recognizes him. No one stops him.

He waltzes his way through lightly populated avenues. He speeds his way through stretching out shadows. The electrical lights of the city are not turned on. The Sun dips under the horizon.

The young man stops in a small street. He observes his surroundings. His head turns, wild hair standing up on his head. Finally, his gaze is set on one door. He approaches it with steady steps. The hand that knocks on it does not tremble.

The sound of a lock being turned echoes in his ears. He pushes his hair out of his face and looks up.

The door is opened.

"Sir."

The wizened Devil hidden in the darkness of his shop blinks. He pushes the object standing between them away. Light floods the night and he sees clearly the boy that had so rudely disturbed the beginning of Great Night. He beams, light bathing his face. The coal of his eyes is set ablaze. "Young friend."

* * *

...

...

hi.

Welcome in this newborn of a year. Magical time we live in, isn't it? Hope you're having a marvelous time that you will always remember fondly.

Are you confused by this chapter? Where is the part in the Forest? What the heck is going on with Issei?

Hehehhe.

The alternative name for this chapter is: Frustration. Believe me when I say I frustrated myself when I wrote this for I wanted to frustrate you as much as possible.

(please donnut kill me)

See you next chapter.

12/01/2019


	9. Child of wold

Issei moves his shoulders around. His bag is heavy on them, straps digging into his inflamed flesh. It does not weight as much as the treasure hidden in the folds of his pants, against tahe tender part of his inner thigh. It doesn't sound as heavy as the door that is softly banged close by an old Devil.

The nerves in his right hand tense up. Issei suppresses the beginning of a smile. His other hand comes to calm the knots and appeases the sentient weapon who has grown overly fond of him, in its unfeeling ways. _Yes, you are important too._

Bashir stalks closer, his long blood orange robe bruising around his legs, to the familiar table that has seen their beginning. "I thought you lost forever, friend," he admits, jauntily coming to a stop before the boy who is tiredly using a crooked table as a support.

Issei stands to his full height, feet well apart, unraveling his spine slowly. His bruised shoulders ache as he brings his hands up in a gesture that felt alien not so long ago. "Your fire burns, Mister Mumtaka."

Bashir does not accept his greeting immediately. He takes his time, eyes of coal burning and lips twisting into a frown. He relents in the end with a whisper. "So does yours."

"Have an awesome Great Night," he adds as his hands drop to his sides.

Issei jolts. It is the second time he hears it, and it sounds evermore so solemn falling from Bashir's crooked lips. "You too?"

Bashir Mumtaka sighs and they're back to their old routine. The wizened Devil, a teacher and the boy, a student. "You should answer; It shall be, for we do not forsake nor forget our first home."

Issei repeats the answer with a slight stutter that refuses to disappear on matter his efforts to strangle it. He scraps his bottom lips with his teeth. It's not a line he can ever say truthfully. His home will forever be the world populated by Humans and a Sun that doesn't disappear for 6 whole days each year. His home is where his family is.

"May I offer you a cup of tea?" The bookshop owner is already seated and he gestures for his guest to do the same.

Issei accepts with a grateful nod. He gently settles his bag at his feet.

He raises his head after he has settled on a cushy seat before Bashir, legs sprawled and thighs as far apart as possible, to find a cup of tea steaming, waiting for him innocently on the table. His pelvis aches dully. The awkward position is nothing new; he stayed like that for hours in the bus. He is going to suffer from it tomorrow, he knows it. His knees already bucked under him a few times on his march to the bookshop.

He envelops the warm white cup (porcelain maybe? Or its Underworld counterpart, perhaps.) with his two hands. His stiff fingers burn uncomfortably before his flesh relaxes and basks in warmth.

"Drink up." Bashir bids softly. His right hand lies on an armchair, holding the thin cup securely atop the polished wood. "We have the whole Great Night ahead of us to talk."

Issei nods, but he doesn't bring the tea to his lips. Important matters should not be delayed. Not when time might be running out. "I need your help," the adolescent admits.

Bashir does not answer his call for help. His eyes shine like incandescent coals. His smoky gaze scrutinizes his guest, one limb at a time. He leans closer, abandoning his cup atop a poor leather book's cover. He observes as his young protégé tucks his right arm closer to his body. Behind a blink are hidden a thousand realizations.

His eyes are focused and Issei squirms.

Tamed strands of snowy hair fall from his ponytail and obscure old eyes and quick thoughts. "Young friend, where were you? You disappeared for two weeks. I feared the worst."

The attention makes Issei unsure of his next words. He practiced, he did, but nothing is coming out. He thought about explaining his quest in a roundabout way, something about salvaging flowers and rescuing ladies in distress. It all sounds wrong in his mind now.

Bashir is a scientist at heart. He dissects books, uses a metaphorical scalpel to bring out the skeleton of a story and discard the useless fat of nonsense authors cannot explain themselves. He reads books for pleasure, yes, but pleasure drawn from learning. He is insatiable in his search of knowledge. He will want hard facts and complete truths.

Issei has no facts to offer (he has no clue what's going on, even now as his goal is so close to completion.) and truths are scarce in his mind.

The boy sniffs a familiar aroma and closes his eyes. _Collect your thought, boy._ They're in for a long ride. The heavy scent of tea enters his nostrils, coils in his lungs and snakes its way to his brain. His right arm tenses from the elbow to his fingertips and it's not the petulant knots, it's danger, danger, danger.

Issei blocks his breath. He puts his cup down when the urge to hurl it away made his entire body tremble. Bashir dared to do _what_ -

"Young friend, where were you?"

Issei's lips jolt in the semblance of a polite, if thigh, smile. Fire dances under his eyelashes. Task, he has a task. He can endure for it. For her. "Bashir. Can you get me an appointment with one of the Marquis' retainers?"

The perfume snakes its way into his lungs with each of stifled breaths and oh, he was such a fool. He shouldn't have come back here. One too many breaths lead Issei to exhale angrily. His throat quiver and he wonders how much drug he has inhaled and how much he can withstand without losing it. He lays his hand flat on the table. His fingertips graze his cup and push it farther away from him. His eyes stay trained on his host.

"Where were you?" Bashir asks again.

There's a desire to please him, please Bashir, which has been there for the entirety of his stay. Issei clenches his jaw close. Anger flares his veins alight. A tremor shakes his arm. He leans sideway and tea burns his hand as it splashes everywhere and soaks paper and abandoned books. The cup is rolling away, making disapproving clinking sounds, as if it protests Issei's lack of tenderness. _It's not far enough._

A hand covered with faded age spots that look like stains stops the teacup before it falls off the table and meets its gruesome fate. Long fingers with thin nails push it up gently.

"Bashir Mumtaka. Can you get me an appointment with one of the Marquis' retainers, yes or no?" the boy grinds out. His jaw hurts. His teeth hurt. He tastes blood on his tongue. He gulps it down angrily, irrigating his parched throat. They can't have his blood- even less that fucking fake bookseller.

Bashir scans the spilled tea Issei hasn't succeeded to shake from his burned hand. "You need to get this treated, young Issei. May I-?"

"No," the young boy-man cuts his elder off.

The old man tilts his head and Issei hates him for the familiarity, for the easiness with which he displays his worry on his face, the way he lowers his eyelids on dark eyes and twists his mouth disapprovingly, yet helpless in front of Issei's crossed arms and drawn brows. As if he were reasoning with a stubborn kid- Issei is no kid. Not anymore.

Bashir Mumtaka is not an adult he can trust anyway.

"Anybody can get an appointment. You simply need to go to the castle and offer a good reason," the not-to-be-trusted-adult relents.

"No. The meeting must be outside the castle. Soon." Issei has no strength for flowery words. Begging is for people who have time. Begging is for people who are in the wrong, and he isn't.

The Devil in front of him has wronged him, not the contrary.

Mentioned Devil shakes his head. "I'm afraid that is impossible. During the Great Night, the Marquis and his entourage stay in the castle."

"The whole six days?" the teen asks, just to be sure of the answer. His heart clenches and he _knows_ ; it's all been going downhill since he arrived here, it's not gonna look up now of all time.

"Yes."

A whole week of waiting. No. No. He can't wait. His mother has waited enough.

"You need to get this treated." Bashir leans in closer and his aged hands reach for a burned hand and it's all wrong-

"Do not touch me!"

Bashir stills. Dark eyes meet troubled hazel ones. Realization does not hit him, does not make his eyes widen nor make him seem rueful. He does not seem ruffled by the fact that Issei saw through his schemes. He knew the moment Issei threw the cup away, perhaps even before, a part of Issei's traitorous brain nags. He knows so much. He sees too much. And he does too much to be an innocent.

Bashir sighs. "It was for your own good," he says, as if he knows what Issei thinks.

The tightly locked monster of an emotion Issei kept inside leaps out of its jail. Anger floods everything.

Issei jumps to his feet. He grabs his bag with his injured hand that aches and hums. He marches to the door with the gait of an old angry man running on stilts. The lock turns in his hand and the door opens easily towards the unknown.

Outside, there's no wind. No Sun. No Moon. No stars. No light.

Shadows of shadows rise on the walls.

The teen stills on the threshold of the bookshop.

Issei wants to leave. He wants to gather the things he left in a place he thought relatively safe, stuff them in a bag and leave the old man and his damned shop in the dust.

He can't.

The Great Night is upon them. His right hand throbs at the very thought of passing the doorstep of the bookstore. Seeking shelter elsewhere now is out of the question.

"The festivities of the Great Night are going to start soon." Bashir comments idly.

Issei bangs the door close. His right hand tenses and clenches around something that could appear, if it was called. He let a shuddering sigh out and relaxes his hand. He turns to face the seated Devil. The man has the audacity to look casual in front of his fury.

"Couldn't you have asked me before drugging me," Issei puts his hands up in the air and sarcasm and despair and everything in between that has no name yet hurts like hell drip from his words, "for my own good?" his voice goes up and up and Issei is screaming.

Bashir does not flinch. He stares and Issei is the one who immediately feels ashamed. Screaming, throwing a child's tantrum, is he not past that age? Then the anger comes back, hot and raving, because he was drugged and he has good reasons to be angry, damn it.

Bashir joins his hands on his lap, body relaxing into his high chair. The dim light of the giant Glorygold dying on the ceiling mourns his last black strands. "It would have affected the effectiveness of the tea. In the end, it wasn't powerful enough to stop you from doing anything reckless. Do you even know what could have happened to you during the Great Night if you had stayed outside?"

Issei hadn't thought, hadn't been able to imagine himself stabbing anything that has a breath and bright eyes. Until he did.

(How he regrets it… how he so does.)

Bashir is making him feel the regret would be worth it.

"I know." Issei grinds out through his clenched jaw. _Drown the thoughts, drown them. Murder will get you nothing but nightmares._ "I know."

Death awaits him on the other side of the door, honing her claws against dull cobblestones.

"Why does the Marquis' entourage stay in the castle during the Great Night?" the angry teen swallows his fury. It will fester in his belly till it is strong enough to be let out and set the world ablaze.

"The Great Night is not only a tradition. It does things to us Devils. Don't you feel the way the air is heavier? Don't you want you feel the way your wings want to spring free?"

No. ( _Yes_.)

His arm is silent. Issei makes the conscious effort to put a foot before the other. He advances two steps in this fashion. Truth will make him walk back to Bashir; lies will make him do the same, in a more violent manner.

The old Devil seems to feel the change in his guest. He appraises the chocolate-haired teenage with a long look. "Why do you want to so urgently meet the Marquis?"

"Not your business," Issei all but bites out.

"Then I am sorry, young friend. I cannot help you." Bashir crosses his arms, mimicking Issei's stance.

Issei clenches his hand and blood rushes to his head.

His worry was really faked then. Bashir is a painter who portrayed himself as a kind, gentle Devil who helps idiotic boys with Sacred Gears for nothing. Except, he isn't. He is a fucking asshole who drugs his unassuming victims. His hand becomes a fist. Ah, fuck it. After all the sacrifices, all the pains and agony, this is what he gets. Fuck no.

"I have something worth leaving their castle for, even during the Great Night," he murmurs. His voice is too cool for all he feels and ah, he is breaking apart, isn't he? Insanity is kind of tranquil, eh.

(He will play Bashir Mumtaka's game and win.)

"Young friend, if I do not know what you have to offer, I will have a hard time convincing them," Bashir counters. It sounds reasonable. Very Bashir-like.

Issei hates it. He swallows another shout. The Plan has to be revaluated. Right now. Honestly, the Plan was to trust his guts, but his guts betrayed him horribly. He had thought about using Bashir as an intermediate. The idea has to be discarded.

Bashir Mumtaka, bookseller and all-round shady character, is a double-edged sword. The old man might help him for a moment and plot his downfall the second. The Devil works for himself before any other. He proved it already. If Issei had been a Devil, he would have been a puppet by now.

The bookshop owner will probably never admit he wanted something out Issei. The teen squares his shoulders and smells the heavy scent -how numb he was, to not sense it before- that permeates the air of the bookshop. His right hand tenses and _it_ moves under his skin, materialising itself to comfort the teen or promise _it_ will be there when the time to fight comes.

He pats _it_ with his left hand, following the patterns _it_ creates with his moving veins.

 _Not here. Not now._ His blood is rushing to his head, the world is turning to fast for his eyes to see, and he wants to stab something. He will not. He needs a well thought out Plan. Swinging around like he owns the place and hopes for the best will go wrong. It did before.

He can't meet the Marquis in the castle. He can't meet the Marquis. The old Devil might just notice his differences. He might ask questions and demand answers. Answers. Truth.

That is not something Issei can offer willingly, lest he really wishes to have red pawns forced down his throat.

What would his mother do?

He has seen her dealing with stressful situations. He has.

Her face is blurred in his mind. Panic tries to encroach itself in his chest.

 _Focus, Issei. Focus._

What did she do? What was her answer?

He-

He remembers.

When _he_ left, she did not break down in the mess he is.

She took the bills. She called companies. She talked with him. About how life wouldn't be the same and he needed to be strong.

Issei needs to be strong.

He breathes in. Blocks any thoughts of poison or betrayal.

One point at the time. One point at the time. He will deal with what comes next, in time.

First, meeting somebody close to the Marquis, to his power. It cannot be the Marquis or his wife. Ask for a price. It will be as grand as his finding. It can only be so. Devils are not cheap people are heart. Greedy, yes. Stingy? Some are, probably. The Phenex Family that flaunts its riches and statuses in every way possible? No. Even if they are, Nobles Devils do not like being called on their cheap temperament, do they?

Issei snorts. There's venom in the air. He amends his first point; he will raise Hell itself if they do not comply.

As long as the consequences of his actions give him a few drops of hallowed eagle tears he can bring to his mother, he will go the damn distance.

Bashir will act as the bait. Issei will take care of the bargaining.

Issei, in a blink of genius folly, sees fiery wings and tastes fried chicken. He knows a fool close to the Marquis' power. A deep fried, prideful and arrogant chicken.

The Plan is ready.

The teen focuses his gaze back on Bashir, who is sipping tea and acting like a completely normal albeit slightly freaky being. He let Issei have his moment, which is nice, but the red eyes are so not nice to stare at.

"You were right. They are not extinct everywhere," Hayashi Issei sets his trap with cryptic words.

Bashir's hand around his cup twitches. He tilts his head ever so slightly to the left.

Issei cocks his eyebrow and looks up, to the giant flower on the ceiling that was softly murdered by the Great Night.

Issei hears a short intake of air.

He knows he has won. Effortlessly.

(For now. One victory in battle does not always lead to victory in war.)

"No," Bashir mumbles.

Issei hears hope and cynicism, even as the simple word sounds firm.

He slowly lowers his sight. Bashir is standing, robe askew and finally looking like the centuries of years he has been through. "Yes," the teen reiterates softly.

Bashir is undone. "Where did you see it? Is it close?"

Issei smiles. That is not a question he will answer. "Do you want to see it?"

"May-may I?" Bashir stutters. It is a balm to Issei's irked soul.

Issei has a mean thought. Let the old man steam in his own vicious juice- let him suffer, torn between his want to believe and his knowledge that Glorygolds are supposed to be very much extinct. Let him be tortured by what he knows, the knowledge he cherishes so much, and what he wants to believe in without proof, like a fool.

Issei discard the mean, tantalizing thought. It could be counter-productive. Wretched old man whose only justification for his crime is 'it was for your own good' does not equate feeble old man who will not try to strangle him to death. He drugged him. Strangling him to have an answer does not seem too farfetched.

Issei moves closer to the table. His hands go to his waist.

Click. His belt is unfastened. Zip. His pants are opened. Pat. His pants fall to his ankles and he pushes them away. A second pair of clinging black trousers are out for the world to see. Tap. A bag, red seal blaring on its surface, is tapped to his right inner thigh. Scratch. He delicately tears it off and holds it in its hand.

Tap. Tap. Tap. His hand caresses the seal. The seal burns crimson.

Issei stares at his ex-host as his hand dives into the bag. He sees how he blanches, how he reddens, how his nose scrunches up, how his eyes are twisted by hope and his mouth, by cynicism. How a wild strand goes into his mouth and he does not register it, focused as he is.

Issei takes his hand out of the bag.

A golden flower, not bigger than his thumb, dances like a flame on the soil Issei cradles on his palm. Its golden petals bend and shiver to a song only it can hear, shining like small jewels. Its gentle glow illuminates the boy's teeth.

Bashir is flabbergasted, mouth open and words nowhere to be found.

Issei comes to the table and sits on warm patches of tea. The smell is relatively weaker. "Can you get me an appointment, now?" he asks.

Bashir stumbles backward, into his chair. Then his wings spring free. He flies, large wings as dark as black holes opened, to one high shelve. He flips books feverously, then take one in his arm and dives back to Issei's side.

Issei recognizes it. He perused it himself in a moment of boredom, after too many hours spent staring at a dancing flower engraved in the ceiling.

Bashir flips the pages with an unusual lack of gentleness, crumpling paper and scrunching ink. He stands, on the tip of drowning into the opened knowledge. he slams it close, stands up and flies to get more books. All are rashly flipped open, all are stared at dazedly, all are shoved to a corner of the table, in a precarious heap.

Issei glimpses at pictures of extinct and forgotten plants. They are so in the open realm of the Underworld, at least.

Another table soon creaks and whimpers under the weight of ancient books that haven't seen left their bookshelves in a very long time. Ages, probably. Finally, Bashir haunts hallways too far for Issei to see him. His wings move in the light darkness that has descended on the Underworld and bother the silence.

Finally, the old Devil hovers back to the main space where a young Human still cradles a Glorygold, lost in memories of forgotten flowers and forsaken beasts.

They eye each other. Bashir falls into his chair. He grips his head between his hands. His knuckles are white and Issei cradles the flower closer to his chest while his other hand stays ready for anything, even a senile tantrum.

Issei didn't think Bashir would suddenly bounce upward and start to dance. Which, of course, he does. He likes to startle Issei in the worst ways. "Glorygold- in my home!" he laughs, hands and feet going everywhere.

His wings flap excitedly. The breeze they create shakes the Glorygold. Issei is quick to cage it between his hands. Its petals lick his skin with fire.

"It feels preposterous, but here it is. Glorygold- in my home!" Bashir links his trembling hands behind his back. He stumbles a few steps back, eyes fixed on Issei' hand. He stops, then nervously saunters back to the object his fascination. The breaths he catches as he adores the flower when he comes near its sparkle are raspy pants. It is ironic; creatures, who claim darkness as their own, are in adoration before a bloom that produces light.

Bashir stands upright, as if struck by lightning. "This needs to be shown to the Marquis, forthwith."

 _Yes, but no._

"No." Issei gently stuffs the flower back into its prison, far from greedy eyes and twitching hands. "I need something that is in their possession."

"You wish to bargain with a Glorygold?" Bashir asks, and his jaw goes lower than it ever did before. Any lower and it will unhinge itself.

Issei's silence is all the answer he needs.

Dark eyes are hidden behind heavy eyelids. They glare. "This belongs to us. This is _ours_ ," the old man snarls as he stands to his full height. He towers over Issei and once upon a time, it would have terrified the teen. Before the Forest and its terrors.

Issei stands upright. They are so close his nose almost touches Bashir's orange robe and its golden threads. "It is," he answers. Dark eyes glint red and brown eyes stay calm on the surface.

Bashir takes a step back. Issei breathes.

"You do not understand, young Issei. This, this is the Marquis' flower." Bashir rumbles. Half-formed words are too hasty to leave his mouth. "In death or life, it is theirs. They will not accept to bargain for it like common merchants. They will take what is theirs to take."

Issei waits for the telltale twitch of his muscles that will tell him the old Devil is trying to fool him. It doesn't come. The weapon attached to him does not hear falsehood in Bashir's words. Issei scrapes his bottom lip, behind the curtain of his closed mouth. A tricky bargain it will be, then. Shit.

"Ask for a reward, not a price," Bashir advices, voice back to his gentle, caressing tone. Already, his eyes are back to their normal tint. They wander from Issei's face to the prison of his most darling flower, the pride of his nation.

Issei's eyes flicker to the bag in his hands. He thinks about the Glorygold he accepted to show, warming his hand and dancing to a song no one can hear.

"Get me an appointment with the one of the Marquis' retainers. Preferably, the third son, Riser. Outside their castle. Before the end of the Great Night," Issei decides.

* * *

Bashir has obliged him. He has been gone for two days.

He disappeared outside with a hasty nod and half-incomprehensible comment that all of Issei's belongings were still in his room. Issei wandered there, after stealing food in the fridge. For someone who thought him lost, he had kept his room and belongings in perfect condition.

Issei is playing a new game. 'Wait-for-Bashir-without-turning-insane'. For now, he is winning. He plotted how he would painfully make his host regret any ideas of new betrayals. It involves flour and a lot of knives. He baked some cakes. Read some books. They do no retain his attention long, though. So he stares at the door. He looks at the ceiling. He rearranges his bag, choosing what he keeps and what will be abandoned. He waters the Glorygolds, set comfily upon his nightstand. He surrounded them snugly with a circle of smooth black rocks. He watches their graceful dance, guided by his breath.

Finally, when there's nothing left to do but turn insane, he reaches for _it_.

"Are you there?" the teen murmurs in the dark, hidden in his closet, his three Glorygolds waltzing by his feet in damp soil.

His right hand tingles. He flexes his knuckles.

A bow light in color and weight appears in his opened hand.

"Hello there." Issei murmurs as he caresses the polished wood. He carefully turns it around in the closeted space he chose as their meeting place.

The wood thrums in greeting against his palm.

"How do you do?" Issei has no ideas what to talk about with a bow.

The bow has evidently no idea how to answer this one, if it even understands the question. It does not move or cackles between Issei's trembling hands. The bow has no mouth and no words. Issei doubts it can even understand what he is trying to say. Magic has rules, as terrible as it sounds. Magic objects can be magic without an ounce of conscience.

"Do you think I'll succeed?" Issei asks anyway. Talking with flowers, even magical, is not a particularly nice experience. They do not understand; do not have the brain to understand a pitiful Human's worries. They worry about the quality of their soil and the amount of pure water needed for their survival and that is all. Talking with a magic bow does not sound too weird. It might understand. If it doesn't, well, what Issei doesn't know can't hurt him.

The wood warms and hums. It's a gentle sound that almost seems to change as Issei strains his ears. It feels as if it is trying to comfort him.

Wood can do many things, but warming by force of will or humming is not one of them, Issei's annoyingly rational, human brain brays.

The teen snorts. Common sense was thrown out of the window the moment he decided going into the Underworld with no training and no connections was a perfectly good idea. He's fucking suicidal, man.

He is not dead. That is the only thing he can boast about. Oh, and he picked up a magic bow _there_ , but he can't say for sure that it was a good move. It saved his ass a few times, true. It also complicates everything. Why, oh why, couldn't he control himself and not pick up the obviously magic item on the ground? He is a dumbass, that's why.

His hands tingle and itch as he holds the bow.

"What do you think will happen if I meet Riser? Will he be… the same?" Same as his dreams, Issei does not say.

The bow does not answer that question either.

"You can go back, huh, in?" It sounds more like question than an order, but he is not in control, he has no idea what to do. The bow still disappears into thin air, weight dissolving from his hands and coiling back around his right hand, under his skin.

Issei succeeds to not stumble over the flowers he cultivates when he leaves his closet. Everything is pitch black, and Humans shouldn't be able to see, but he does. Electrify does not work during the Great Night. Not in the bookstore, at least. Issei knows it is frowned upon to light magic and, well, he doesn't know where to start with that one.

He puts one flower back into his sealed bag and the two others, back into their hiding place (aka his bag).

Evening is there (it's probably evening, he is not sure anymore) and Bashir is still outside.

Issei moves around the kitchen, searching for a snack.

A door is banged. Wind creeps along Issei's spine. A shadow enters the kitchen.

"You have an appointment. Right now."

Bashir. OK. Only Bashir. Issei relaxes his right hand.

"Where?" Issei asks. He hopes it takes place here, but he knows it won't. Bashir likes his privacy.

Bashir stands on the threshold, unmoving. His ivory hair looks made of ash. His robe is still too orange. "A safe place. Follow me."

Issei wordlessly moves to his bedroom first. He closes his door. He takes his bag, adjusts the straps resting on his shoulders. Bashir does not follow him inside his room, which is good. One Glorygold goes into his pocket. One Glorygold goes against his thigh, still in the sealed bag. One, he tucks in his palms. He peeks by the keyhole. No creepy junkie old man in view.

He leaves the flower on the kitchen table. It waves its soft, orange leaves as he leaves.

Bashir is pacing the floor of the bookstore's main room. His wings are out again. They flutter slightly, afraid of blowing

He tucks his wings in, only for them to reappear a second later each time. Issei sees Bashir glancing at him from time to time and says nothing. The Devil is nervous. The Great Night's effects? Or something else entirely? Did he betray him?

Issei still follows him slowly through lifeless streets, head bowed. He clings to Bashir's dark shadow and does not stare at what brushes against his coat from time to time. If he stares, he will be discovered. His ticket to Phenex tears is named Bashir and Riser, and he will not stop clinging to them till the end.

They walk wordlessly till they find themselves in a tall building, marching in a lightless hallway. They arrive together in a room that feels comfortable. High chairs surround a round table. Sophisticated tapestries of Phenex landscape are hung on the walls. A fireplace with a burning flame completes the picture.

"Riser Phenex accepted to see us tonight. It is a great honor. When he arrives, you need to kneel. When he calls your name, you may rise." Bashir whispers, head facing nothingness.

Issei walks to the center of the room, hand caressing the brocade of the seats as he passes them. His back is turned to Bashir. "No. I will see him alone."

"You do not know their way-"

Issei spins and slaps a seat. It cracks under his fist. "Bashir Mumtaka." _Do not try me._

The old Devil's face closes. He pinches his lips. "Do not say anything you could regret," he finally utters darkly.

With that said ominously, he turns around and shows his swivelling coat to Issei.

The teen rocks his head at nothing, as if he were nodding. He knows very much how High Nobles are. He sighs and walks to a draped window, pressing his back to the wall. He nudges the heavy curtain to peer through the small interstice. Light darkness drowns the world. Issei can see the outlines of grand buildings bathed in darkness and a proud hill where a prouder tower stands.

Their meeting place is in the old district, then.

He peers at lonely shadows and blurs, deformed and shapeless, stalking the streets. Devils left their feeble human skin behind. Tonight is a night of celebration. Terrors walk the earth.

The Underworld does not forget nor forsake its first home.

Issei nudges the curtain close. His eyes can see through the light darkness. He doesn't doubt their eyes.

(Darkness will never be an impenetrable blanket to his eyes again.)

A scorching breeze invades the room he stands in. Spices he cannot name are on its dregs. Heavy footsteps pound the ground.

Issei pushes himself from the ground and stands upright. Whatever will come through the door, he will face. Be it Riser Phenex or a shapeless blur with no name.

Thankfully for his coiled guts, it is the Riser Phenex he recalls from his dreams who passes the threshold of their meeting place.

Riser Phenex does no hide his wings. They are brazenly opened for the world to see. Each feather seems to have been adorned with a small jewel at its tip; as if to remind everybody around that they weren't as rich as one Riser Phenex. Even if one could avoid looking at the flaming wings, they would see his blazing clothes. Golden threads, silver seams and an opened robe that shows gilded patterns snaking and twisting on a bronze chest.

Issei is momentarily blinded by the golden chain only American black rappers would dare to wear loosely hanging around his neck. So much bling bling. Does Riser Phenex need to show off so much?

Issei hides his thoughts behind a bow. 90 degrees of pure politeness. "May your soul burn forever."

Riser does not bow. "May your fire never be extinguished," he answers. His voice rumbles so low it sounds like the rasps of a wild animal.

Issei raises his head. Scarlet eyes size him up. His book notebook on manners comes to mind too late. High Noble Devils aren't the type of persons who like eye contact with common folks. Something about being stained by putrid, baser gazes.

Oh well.

Issei keeps his gaze up. The deed has been done. Might as well keep his head held high. Appearing a coward will not help him.

(Riser Phenex will not kill him. He is not that petty. And Issei has something he desires most fiercely, doesn't he. Issei's little heart clings to that thought to not stop beating.)

"I heard an interesting story. I hope there was some truth in such an…" Riser pauses and his next words wouldn't sound sarcastic if his acting wasn't so perfect. He wants the boy in front of him to hear his ridicule, "outlandish tale."

Riser wants no pleasantries and neither does Issei. The matters at hands are too important for bland compliments and light talk. The Great Night demands solemnity. The Glorygold, brought back from the dead by yours truly, Hayashi Issei, demands attention. The fact that Riser Phenex did not think showing an iota of respect or acknowledgement begs rudeness.

In a movement that was practiced in front of a mirror, Issei reaches into his coat pocket slowly. His hand disappears into it bereft of anything but sweat and comes out with a dancing treasure. He sets it on the ebony table that stands by him.

"You know what it is." Issei states. There's no need to name what brought them together. Soft light illuminates dark rings that once belonged to a growing tree.

Riser's reaction is more subdued compared to Bashir's. His wings extend around him, a feather or two flutter by Issei's face. He approaches the table, slowly, like a predator does a blind prey. Long strides take him to the once slain pride of his people.

"Glorygold,  
bold flower of old  
child of wold  
the world with you frivolled." Riser murmurs. His voice strains and falters on the last word. Light dances on his visage.

Issei drinks in the sight of him. Finally, a face he remembers, a face he can name easily. A face that is so close, now. His dreams feel too real. His dreams ring true, for once.

He snaps out of his trance when he sees Riser's hands snake their way towards the flower's soft petals.

Issei blocks him, soft wall of human flesh and bones that he is. He is squished between a Devil that burns fiercely and a flower that sings for its Master.

Riser snarls. He raises his hand and it looks like a claw ready to relieve the little teen of his throat. "This is mine. **Do not block my way**."

The order rings in his ears. Any lesser Devils would have moved away. Any lesser men would have scrambled away. Issei is neither a Devil nor a man.

He is an adolescent with a belly full of fire.

Issei juts his head so his eyes meet Riser's. He sees red iris and black pupils that reflect a dancing bloom. "I am not blocking your way. I am saving the Glorygold," he says with all the confidence he didn't know he possessed.

Before Riser's attentive silence, Issei continues. "It is fragile right now. It needs to be planted soon and taken care of. A careless touch could hurt it."

He doesn't say he almost stepped on it a few minutes ago, as he left the cupboard where he had a mental breakdown and talked with a magic bow. Because… because of reasons.

Riser towers over Issei. His fists are clenched and ready to toss Issei through a few walls. "I would never be careless with it."

"I know. Overprotection can also be harmful to it," Issei adds helpfully.

Riser blinks. He tilts his head.

Issei takes the hint and moves away. Riser's thighs against his own made a special kind of alarms blare in his mind.

Riser retracts his wings with a soft rustle of jewelry. He takes one more step forwards. His hips hit the table. It is in reach and yet, it does feel as if a careless ghost of a touch could disintegrate it. His long fingers, covered in rings that were beautiful, they were so a moment ago, shine gaudily under the flower's soft light, trace the golden flower's elegant petals. Exaltation and reverence seal his lips.

Issei turns his head sideway. He feels like a voyeur.

Riser's entire body, wings and jewels, shivers. The hard jingling of gold echoes in the too empty room. He sits. His ankle finds his knee and the boy catches a glimpse of golden circlets there too. His right hand cradles his chin. The other taps the ebony table with trimmed fingernails. Gone is the man who worshipped a plant.

"You didn't block me only with the flower's well-being in mind. Speak."

Oh, what an astute fried chicken.

The young merchant places his poor hand flat against the table. It didn't like how he used it to bang a hard chair. "The Glorygold is yours."

"You stated the obvious. What else?" Riser snaps again.

"I found it. I brought it to you." Issei adds slowly. The Riser he dreams of is not astute. Mildly intelligent would be a kind way to put it. He wants to know how this Riser reacts, how he thinks.

Riser sneers in a Riser's way as his arms cage the flower. He gets up, only to bend his upper body over the flower and not-subtly stares at Issei's hand that is clearly too close to his flower for his comfort. "If you hadn't, we would have taken what is ours anyway."

Riser is predictable, in a way. He follows Bashir's train wreck of thoughts.

Issei removes his hand and takes a few steps back.

"Yes, but I brought it to you," Issei starts. He takes in a shaky breath under Riser-but-Not-Riser's unimpressed stare. "Uphold your title as the representative of the Marquis, and do the honorable thing." His words are shakier than they should. Weaker. And the older Devil is sitting again, legs crossed and eyes shining. Riser's eyelids are lazily covering his eyes and his thoughts.

Issei has been a fool to believe him a dim Devil. Riser is Riser, but he has more depth than dreams ever gave him.

"Which is?" the Devil asks.

Issei takes a moment to remember what they were talking about, what he wants to ask for. He gathers his wondering thoughts. He straightens his shoulders. "Reward me for my finding."

"In what way is this different from a transaction?" Riser drawls out. Issei has never seen anybody drawl and not look stupid. He almost compliments him on his style.

Issei opens his arms. "Our willingness to be honest. I offer you this," he croons as one of his hand points the prideful flower and the other, his heart, "if you do no wish to reward me, I will not retract my gift."

Riser slowly allows his lips to tilt upwards. His eyes are dancing crescent. "What do you want?"

"Your tears."

The silence that stands between them wears Issei down. His heart beats a wild polka.

Riser throws his head back, gaze going from the flower to Issei. His fingers slowly tinkle the armchairs under them. His earrings catch a ray of light and shine. "Very well."

His right arm does not alarm him. Truth. Issei knows they're far from done. Riser the player is not about to be fooled easily. Oh, that rhymes.

"Right now." _Give me a mile, I will take a country._

Riser cocks a defined eyebrow. It fits him as naturally as feathers would a swan. On anybody else, it would years of practice and it wouldn't still look as good. "You want my tears, now?"

Issei purses his lips and nods.

"You are a bold one to ask for my tears during the Great Night." Riser chuckles. "What is your name?"

"Issei," the boy answers truthfully. Devils smell lies.

"Issei, son of?" Riser asks impatiently.

"Issei, son of nobody." His father is dead to him. And his father's a nobody. Technical truths are the best truths, the teen decides.

"Well then, Issei, son of nobody, you must be on a quest of some sort, to work so arduously during the Great Night."

Issei nods. He shifts his balance from one foot to the other. Their conversation is steered in a direction he doesn't like. "I am."

Riser eyes him from his boot-clad toes to his short mess of hair. "Who is your Master, to send you on such a quest?"

Issei tucks his right arm behind him. Riser follows his movement with his eyes.

"That is information I cannot divulge." Ever.

Riser relaxes into the cushioned seat. His robe flows around him, pooling on his lap. His wings are tucked on his back, jingling with each of his breath. "How did the Glorygold end in your hands? Is there more? Or is it information you cannot divulge?"

"I found it by the Wall, close to the blocked Gate of Rainbow. It was blooming there. There are none other in my possession."

True. Not true. True. True. It is true. The flowers are not his. One belongs to a crafty bookstore owner and the other, to his mother. The fact that they didn't claim ownership doesn't change this fact. Yeah.

Riser hums. His gaze falls again on the Glorygold. He eyes it as a man would stare at his lover, lovingly and longingly.

Issei shifts. No tears have fallen from reddened eyes and it is kind of a shame. People cry when they meet a long-lost beloved, don't they? Can't Riser be a bit more proactive here?

"Third Young Master, do you have other questions?" He is impatient, restless. He is so close. So close.

Blue eyes that shine crimson like the magic blood cursing his veins, detach themselves from their obsession. Riser hums. "No. My Lord Father will question you."

"No." Issei shakes his head resolutely. "A life is at stakes." She is waiting, on a hospital bed, and she can only wait for so long before her strength leaves her for good. Issei will not allow that outcome. He will not.

Riser is unimpressed. "The pride of my March is at stakes." Between a life and his pride, the choice is made swiftly. Issei hates him for it.

He will have the promised tears; he feels it in his guts. The Devil lounging in front of him is not a deceitful one. He might just stuff a vial of glorified eagle tears in his hands as he dies at his feet after a round of torture to keep his words true. The mean to keep his mother alive is hovering in front of his eyes. It is the carrot. He doesn't want to have a close relationship with the stick the Marquis will wield.

He has too many secrets to keep to his grave to let that happens. "I give you my word that I will come back after that life has been saved by your tears."

Issei has fallen in a trap. Riser does not hide his contentment. His smile stretches to a length that translates into troubles for the teen on a quest. "No. Give me your word that you won't. Disappear. Never give to anybody else what you've given to me."

A question is on the tip of his tongue. He strangles it. Riser Phenex says one thing one moment, only to change his mind the next. Is he a famed example of a lunatic? It doesn't matter, in the end. Riser's goals and schemes do not matter to him. Asking questions will not get him his happy ending. Being silent and obedient will.

"Then give me your word that you will not try to take my reward away." Issei decides he will be silent and obedient after he's done being outrageous.

Riser stills. He slowly puts his hanging foot on the ground. His two arms, covered in golden patterns, push him up. He slowly unravels his spine and his power. "You dare question my honor?"

Issei squares his shoulders and juts his head up. "You dare question mine." His rumble is the most non-threatening he has ever heard. Good job, Issei.

Riser, Riser blinks. He gauges the teen's small frame, his harmless throws his head back and laughs. It sounds all kind of wrong in Issei's ears.

Riser reaches for his pocket. Issei tenses in one breath. Alarms ring in his mind. Could he make a run for it? Should he destroy the Glorygold before he leaves? Snatch it? Burn it? Will he have enough time?

A vial is in the golden Devil's hand. Nothing else.

Riser stares.

Issei stares back.

The older man with gilded wings chuckles. A bright red blur appears at Riser's feet, circling him. He turns his head away from the Glorygold (no feelings, no feelings, for tears awaken by feeling are his own and not the Phenex, a voice sings behind Issei's ears). His gaze holds the younger boy's steadily. He does not blink as he tilts his head, his large hand delicately placing the vial under his shadowed right eye. His red make-up gleams.

He blinks and a single drop forms on his eyelids, caught by lush eyelashes who lead the heal-it-all into the thin vial opening. A tear falls into the vial. A second follows suit. A third and final one flows down. The salted water turns transparent red, transparent healing.

Issei relearns to breathe. The hair on his nape is standing. There's no possible way to smooth his skin, bumped and raised as it is by goose bumps.

Riser puts the cap on the bottle swiftly as he stands up.

"A handshake is in order to seal our deal; don't you think?" Riser offers his hand, vial caged between his index and his thumb, and Issei takes it before he has the time to think anything.

They share a handshake.

Issei feels something burningly foreign pass through his fingertips.

His ally comes in handy at that point. Issei feels it snake in his veins, painfully blocking the fire ignited in his blood.

Riser's golden eyes (and everything is golden, golden, golden on him) blazes through his skull, peering into his thoughts. His grip is neither gentle nor brutal. The right amount of pressure is applied, the right amount of time is spent, the right amount of skin is offered. His arm does not shake or wave like a noodle. Muscles snake around his bones, under bronze skin. His skin, against Issei's, is smooth and firm.

It is frightening in its precision.

Issei retracts his hand with all the calm he can fake.

Riser smiles. "Well, aren't you an interesting one."

(he knows, he knows, he _knows_.)

Issei takes the vial and back pales out of the room with one last bow. He disappears into the night.

Riser is left to his thoughts. The Glorygold shines and dances.

* * *

Issei treads on rubies carpets that go on forever, breathing in spices and exhaling giddiness. Fear hastens his pace. Joy hastens his breathing. The whole world is turning upside down.

He's got it! He's got it! His heart sings and the young boy bounces in the hallway, only to falter as he remembers where he is. His steps resume their jolly dance a few steps later.

Riser is behind him. Riser who knows _something_. Riser who will not doubt chase him.

His treasure is concealed under his shirt. It digs painfully in his bellybutton with each of his bounce. Issei hops with more ardour. He feels the magic liquid swivels and shakes. It cannot be touched or taken without his notice.

"It seems you were successful in your endeavor." A wrinkled voice calls the bouncing teen. Bashir stands by the corner, in his somber glory.

Issei comes to a halt. He remains tight-lipped on his matter. The vial digs into the little fat he has.

"Thank you for your help, Bashir," the name rolls on his tongue uncomfortably. Issei cannot muster the hypocrisy to call him 'sir'. He is done lying.

"You're welcome," murmurs the old man. He seems forlornly happy. His house housed a legend, if only for a few days. He will be part of the unknown story, too. "Let us go to my home."

Issei shakes his head. "I need to take the Train."

"The Underworld Train? Now?"

Issei hums and bypasses the old Devil. "Your payment is in the kitchen, blooming," he adds carelessly, as if he were not talking about the man most beloved legend.

Bashir stands still. "I could abandon you here," he says, voice low. It sounds like growls an old wolf would make to fake a fight with the younger ones, to train them. They're back to their old routine again, one the teacher and the other, the student.

"It needs constant care. The more time we waste, the more time it has to wither," Issei reminds him impatiently. The more time he wastes, the more time his mother has time to wither, too. "Do you know how to take care of it?"

Bashir slumps his shoulders. "You sly Devil."

Issei accepts the compliment with a bow. He does not regret the gesture, though the vial pushes against his stomach. Something moves through his abdomen as he raises his head, coming all the way from his constricting diaphragm, to his wheezing lungs, to his parched throat, shaking lips and pinched eyes. A sound, booming and powerful, echoes in the Night.

Issei is laughing.

It's all snot and burning chortles.

Bashir grunts. "Let's go." He turns and his red coat pools around him. He walks slowly, picking up the pace when Issei bounces to the back of his heels. "How did you know about the pass for the Great Night's Train in my possession?"

Issei sweeps the remnant of a tear. "I believe in your abilities," he deadpans. He ain't an idiot. A Devil that could obtain a private meeting with Riser Phenex is not a simple person. Such a Devil would certainly have a pass to use the Train when no others can.

Bashir's eyes shine with a red tint. "Walk beside me, friend." The adjective that always accompanied the appellation has disappeared. Issei is no longer young in the snowy haired Devil's mind. No longer something that can be toyed with. He has officially become a menace in the old Devil's eyes.

Issei squares his shoulders. He is a menace. The bow bonded to his right hand crackles a dangerous tune in his mind, all sharp notes and low hums.

* * *

I have to admit, this took me a while. Did I have fun writing this? I did. I love my boi Issei.

I hope you liked Riser's appearance. I love him, for some reasons. And now you know why Bashir's kind of shady.

Thank you for all your reviews and help with the greetings. They're all lovely and yes, I will try to use them all. If you have any ideas, don't hesitate to send them to me.

Do you still have no ideas what's going on? Do not worry, things will come to light. Slowly. Giving you everything on a platter would not be fun for me.

Now, one last thing; I have a benevolent Angel on my shoulder who whispered ideas in my ears and boosted my passion when I had none. Certainly, he is a Muse of sort for me. So thank you, little Muse, for you have a greater effect on my little brain than you realize.

30/01/2019


	10. End of reality

Kuoh is sleeping. Night owls are lost on their phone, searching for answers to their boredom in an illusory world. Night shifters sip coffee and wish morning could come faster. Some nervous humans are worrying about Christmas and the present they promised their parents and loved ones but didn't buy. Internet soothes their worry with promises of fast deliveries or spikes their anxiety with terrifying declarations of 'out of stock' and 'will be back in a few days '.

Issei throws his head back and breaths in the view.

His world is made of mottled concrete and stars that weakly shine imperceptibly over the blankets of clouds and covers of electric lights. It smells like fresh pollution.

Wind swivels around his legs. Behind him, the Gate is retracting on itself. It blends with the crumbling bricks.

Issei glimpses blurry worms moving on the surface of the wall, forming words and runes even his language seal cannot translate into a known tongue. Exactly like the seal from Amon's he pocketed just before boarding the train. Bashir is dutiful when he wants to be.

"Young one," a raspy voice calls him.

Issei turns his head toward the rotten bench he knows too well. "Have an awesome Great Night," he greets softly.

"It shall be, for we do not forsake nor forget our first home." The old Devil croons. There's a smile to his tone, a happy jolt to the twirls of his umbrella.

He is, Issei realizes, the first and probably the last person who will wish a happy Great Night to the Guardian. Kuoh is not a big town and neither does it have much importance for Devils.

Issei wonders if he ever sleeps, if he has ever left his duty. Worldly desires do not seem to bother him. He has seen him eat when he brought him takoyaki.

"I never asked for your name, Guardian." Issei chooses his words with practiced care. Each letter counts. The Devil in front of him is just that special. Without the bulky, pink umbrella bearing, back pushing Devil, what would have been his story but a tragedy? "May I have the honor of knowing it?"

The old man hides his gaze behind his grey fringe. His fingers stop their movements. All is still. "I was named Aquish,"

"Farewell, Aquish," Issei says. His voice is distorted by the silence, by the night. His whisper seems a scream. His new seal comes to mind and he wishes to show the weary Devil, to prove… to prove his innocence. He wasn't always lying. He did what he said he would. He did take tortuous roads and did try to erase his promise. In the end, he stayed true. Or rather, his promise stayed true against his best attempts.

Issei folds it, hidden in his pocket. He does not grab it and take it out for the Guardian's eyes to see. It's meaningless now.

The Guardian of the Gates, who once upon a time had a name he used, twirls his closed pink umbrella between his palms, tip digging in the cranny of broken asphalt. Like a dandelion, stubbornly holding on poor soil and weak sunlight. Glassy brown eyes flicker to his head, fleetingly meeting his gaze. He understands. "Farewell, young Issei."

Hayashi Issei bows.

He walks away from the Gates of the Underworld. He turns his back on the Guardian. A strange weight, one that is normally reserved for his moments of daynightmares about his mother's fate, rests on his chest. He swallows cold air. The end of that story, the tale between a boy and a Devil, leaves his throat dry and clogged.

It seems so wrong to walk away from his beginning without a thank you. It seems so wrong to leave the man who helped him more than anyone unknowingly stays in the dark about his part in Issei's tale.

Issei purses his lips. His feet do not stop. He treads from one pool of electrical light to another. The light, as fake and impersonal as it is, comforts him. He is back.

Strangers walk briskly on the immaculate sidewalk. A drunken couple stumbles by the small teen, snickering and giggling sweet nothings.

Issei listens to them, slowing his pace. He pauses when their voices disappear at a curve. They boom back into existence and the teen startles back on his tracks where he stopped. They are all that is normal to see on a night before Christmas. They're happy, hopeful and horribly obvious to the world of dangers that surrounds them.

There is bliss in ignorance.

Bright colorful lights flash left and right. Fake, plastic pine trees stand like milestones by the sidewalks. Garish lights strangle them. A bus passes him quickly, not going over the speed limit but not going slowly either. It's packed with nothingness and lonely souls.

Issei walks past the bus station without stopping. The bus' warmth is appealing. The bus plastic yet not too uncomfortable seats are inviting. The lull of the swift moving machine is singing serenades to his aching feet. Issei runs. He needs the cold's bite. He needs to hear the way his coat rustles when his steps are too large. He needs the feel of the asphalt under his padded boots. He needs reality. As surreal as reality can be, he needs it. He has to accept it.

It feels strange. The whole adventure in the Underworld, the whole time, he felt as if another boy was the one piloting. It wasn't happening to him. It was all happening to that boy who knew what to do, how to do it. The teen who was in control. All of this happened to him and Issei has to compute it.

Issei has never been in control.

He walks all the way to the hospital.

Its lights floodlight the street and its neighbors. The teen passes the tall, grey buildings without a second glance-

-is what he would like to think he does. His feet feel like lead. His boots encroach his legs to the ground. He trudges sluggishly, as if he were fighting against heavy snow mounting his thighs and hail blocking his view. There is no such thing. The street is as silent as it can be on a December night before Christmas.

Issei swallows. If the Guardian does not leave his seat, ever, then he can very well wait. He can wait and make sure everything will go right.

Fuck Murphy's law. That guy was probably a sadist. If everything that can go wrong will go wrong, Issei will make sure nothing can go wrong. Every little detail will go terribly well or else… or else Issei will do terrible things himself.

Issei will bully events into submission.

He walks faster, feet no longer sliding on the ground with raspy sounds. They go up and down with a steady rhythm that beats through his chest and thrums through his entire being.

His first stop is a motel nestled on a corner of a street. It has an innocuous view on the hospital's depressing walls. It is known as a resting place for people who couldn't get a visitor's bed in the hospital. It is known as a place where people gnaw on their nails and sometimes also what's left behind while they wait for happy or sad news. It is known as a place where people drink their sorrow away. It is known as a place where people party until the cellar is empty.

Issei remembers his sorry excuse of a father's colleague once told him the motel was haunted. Little boy like Issei had nothing to do around such a place.

A Christmas jingle sparks up as he pushes the door of the motel open.

A middle aged woman, face painted with cracking make up, look up from her computer with a frown. Clearly, she is no having fun. "Do you have a reservation?" She asks aggressively.

Issei offers his most boyish smile. "No. I would like to book a room for two."

Her brilliant nails tap the counter. "It's the night before Christmas… I'm not sure if we have a free room."

Issei translates silently; go away, you're a hassle, I'm tired. He acts if he doesn't understand her tone. "Can you check, please?"

"For you alone?" The way she gauges him is a good indication of how much she believes he is old enough to book a room alone. That is, minus 100.

The teen that is clearly not of age plays along. "No. My mother is at the convenience store," he replies with all the cheer he can manage. She is not, not yet, but if all goes well and it will go well, it will, maybe she will be waltzing around convenience stores soon.

"For how many nights?"

"Only one."

She tickles her computer keyboard some more, creating an off-beat song with the clatter of her nails against plastic. She looks up with pursued lips. "We have suit. It's empty tonight, but only tonight."

Issei does not flinch. His soul does not shiver when he thinks of the price of a suit. He knows it will not be cheap. "I'll take it."

"I need your ID." She seems wholly invested in thwarting his plan.

"I'm not of age, if that's what you want to know." Issei loses some of his cool in his biting quip, but he ain't here to be refused.

A long sigh. "Is your companion of age?"

Issei eyeballs the middle aged woman on the other side of the counter. He did mention his mother, didn't he? "My mom is."

If she wasn't, he wouldn't be running all over the place. He wouldn't damn exist.

"Oh."

Issei doesn't know if she registered what he said or who he mentioned. It's strange, how people seem to hear yet do not listen. Down there, people had a focus when Issei talked; they stared at him until he was done speaking. Then, they would answer. Each of their words was chosen with a care Issei has learnt to replicate.

He spent too much time around weirdos (willy, thoughtful, incomprehensible, sensible, crazy, clever, back-stabbing Devils.).

Speaking of Devils... He leans over the counter and flashes white teeth. "I'm the one paying. Can you not show her how much I paid? It's a surprise for my mom's birthday."

Issei knows he has softened the receptionist's stance. She sighs again, but she is getting him a keycard now.

He hurriedly fishes in his pockets for his wallet when she gestures for the machine. "I'm paying cash, if that's okay." Her glance under heavy eyelashes that look definitely unreal tells him he's being a real hassle. "Last year red pocket," he adds with dropping eyes and an unsure tilt of his lips. He is aware he could take a picture of himself right now and put it under the definition of 'meek' in the dictionary. It's the goal of such a look.

She counts the bills he gave her methodically. Her movement is practiced; she is doing it better than Issei has even done. For such a money-grabber (Issei is more self-aware than most people think he is, thank you very much. He can't do much without money. It's normal to keep it close and not spend it for ridiculously expensive food like carrots. Carrots are good for his 'health', but do they offer him a smidge of the precious calories he needs to survive the day? Nay.), it's mesmerizing. Issei fights the urge to ask her how she can flick them so quickly between her thumb and her index.

"Suite 405, fourth floor. If you need anything, we're a ring away," she drones on as she hands him two keycards. Her eyes leave the computer she's tinkling. "Happy birthday to your mom."

Issei smiles back. She did listen, after all. "Thanks."

Under her discreet ogling, he takes off his shoes. He does not make a beeline for the lift; he hops through the door to the stairs with a wave.

He scrambles up the stairs to the fourth floor. The carpeted wood muffles his violence against it as he goes faster and faster. He glances to the ceiling long enough to see no cameras. Good.

He opens the door leading to the fourth floor and pauses. Still no cameras. He walks in the dim-lit hallway, counting the doors and the light filtering from the crack between the doors and the grayish carpet. At least two people are up. The fifth door on the right is his. He sweeps the keycard against the lock. It turns green and Issei manhandles the doorknob to get inside.

He softly bangs the door close behind him.

The suite is petite for the name it bears. Two large beds (queen? King? Twin? Issei has no idea how bed size works) are on each corner of the bedroom. A small bathroom is by the door to the hallway.

He tries one bed. The bedding is soft under him.

He jumps back to his feet. His knees wobble under him. He reaches for his bag, zips it open and pours its incongruous guts on the bed. A few smelly socks arranged in a big fetid ball fall of the edge. A book on plants which clearly cannot be found in the Human world, seeing the cover and its ferocious flower with black teeth, slams loose change under its weight. A keychain jingles its fall as Issei vigorously shakes his bag one last time.

Under one underwear he delicately pushes away with the book, (it's a dirty one, if he is to trust his nose. Issei does.) he finds his prize. His old phone is still intact after all it went through. Nokia does not make the most appealing phones, but they can take Life's thrown lemons and make hot chocolate out of it. They're tough little fuckers.

He flicks his phone open. The phone buzzes to life.

A few unread messages clog his vision. His neighbors left voice mail and frantic messages, from what he peers at. He sweeps to his other messages.

Ah, there she is.

She left a few messages. Of course she would. She did demand he live with her when her son left the house. Too many good reasons made sure that never happened. Issei was no quitter; leaving his mom's while she was at her lowest would have made him one, because of course she couldn't come, a house in the middle of the mountains isn't the most reasonable place to try to heal from one of the most vicious sickness known to men.

She didn't mention the awkwardness of housing the abandoned wife of his son, but Issei had not been deluded by her silence.

Her silence on the phone stopped being comfortable afterwards.

Reason and reasonable people is the enemy.

[Hey. It's me.] He types. His thumb hovers over the send button.

He thinks of homemade mochi and gyokuro tea drank on the fourth morning after every New Year. He tapes the button lightly.

That part of the plan rests solely on her. Her next action will steer him in the right direction.

Technology does its own brand of magic and he knows she will see his message the next time she opens the dingy phone he chose for her. She admitted she wanted to learn how to text and they chose it together, though he was the one to quiz the sellers for the cheapest, best deal. They somehow succeeded in fooling him, Issei still suspects to this day. She paid too much for the old version she got.

He switches from his messenger app to the Internet's guts. He watches several videos on the same subject intently. The Japanese Ministry of Health is nothing but dutiful in its videos.

Issei learns a great deal.

He turns off his phone.

He takes a long scarf, red and bright, from under him. A tuque, checkered with snow white and bloodly orange, is found under the bed after much raking and sacking.

Issei wounds the scarf around his neck loosely with drawn gestures. He thrusts his chopped mess of hair into the tuque. He glimpses at the sliding mirror which hides a secret closet all hostel's rooms seem to have. His reflection in the mirror shows a teen with a wool scarf that blankets his chin and mounts the tip of his nose. The tuque atop of his head lets a few wisps of brown hair out.

He tugs them back inside forcefully until they obediently stay there.

He arranges some clothes haphazardly on his bed, sprawls a few hygienic necessities in what looks like teenage chaos.

The sealed little thing that was concealed against his thigh is put in the smallest front pocket of his bag. The sealed little thing digging into his navel stays where it will need both.

Swaddled in his warm clothes, bearing a bag that feels nothing, he stumbles out of the hostel. He keeps his back turned on the hospital. He knows better than to look. The urge to just run for his life, for his mother's life, has not disappeared. The itch is there and one sideway glance will not content him.

Issei is not a freaking idiot.

She will need a place to rest and clothes when she is out. She will need his presence. No way, no way, no way is he leaving her sides once she is up.

(If the tears do work.)

He goes to the convenience store next. It is thankfully nestled by the hostel, open 24 hours for lonely souls in need of calories and other important resources. He finds clothing that feels thin and plastic under his fingers. He buys it without a change in expression as the cashier holds back a perplexed stare at the women's underwear and outer wears he chose. Issei wouldn't have noticed if the man behind the counter hadn't starred at his purchases a tad too long as he scanned them.

"No need for a plastic bag." Issei hoists his bag higher with a jolt.

The cashier wordlessly gives him his items. He glances at his bag. A blink later, his decision is taken; he does not ask to see the insides of a teen's bag that did his business quickly and politely at such a late hour. It is too much effort demanded for the night before Christmas.

"Happy Holidays."

Dead eyes who whimper tales of deathly boredom and long hours spent standing in a tiny convenience store tell him their time there has been everything but fulfilling and happy. "Happy Holidays," the cashier strangles out.

Issei offers a tilted nod of his head. He marches to the door without further ado, because he has a mission, he is a man on a mission. By the automatic door, a mess of stapled papers, ads and special discounts for buyers, clings to a peeling board. In the middle of chaos, a neat plasticized sheet of paper stands out. It is too proper for its surroundings.

He reads its bold letters before he realizes it.

 _Hyoudou Issei_

 _13 years old, Kuoh Middle School_

 _Disappeared on-_

Issei ducks his head, chin digging into his scarf. He hunches his head into his tense shoulders, neck coiled in a position that resembles the one shown on the not-so old picture of himself.

The picture of him, in his school uniform, acne burgeoning around his thin lips, reels in his mind like a movie. He remembers the day they took that school picture. He remembers how his then best friend pushed him against a desk so hard he thought his hip had broken. Just a game, he said. It's just a game, Issei. Why are you crying, you big baby?

His eyes were moist for a reason and it shows on the picture.

The cashier is back to sweeping the shop with a gaze in an effort to stay awake.

Issei unlocks his back. He flees the shop with a wave and a steady pace.

This time, his destination is in line with his heart's desires. He marches to the back of the building, bypassing the front entirely. The back is as gloomy as the front. Only one thing somewhat saves appearances.

The garden. It stretches itself along the walls of the grey buildings. Winter has not been kind: the plants are withered and dying, even those that are supposed to survive harsh weather.

Nobody haunts the inner garden, locked between the palliative care building and the children ward. It's too cold to let patient wander outside, not to mention the night is deep. Sophisticated lamp streets made of wrought iron and delicates arcs dimly lit the barren ground regularly. Brown coarse grass sparsely covers dark, hard soil.

He skims walls and finds an unlocked door.

His arm tingles and leads him to safer, darker, lonelier corners. It cannot obscure him from the view of the cameras. They undulate the smooth ceiling with their black form and red dots of light. He keeps his head down.

Finally, he is in a part of the hospital where privacy is more valued than catching a wayward boy.

He treads on plastic tiles and hope.

The sound of dashing wheels brings him to a stop. A nurse with a trolley walks at an intersection without seeing him in front of him. Just what he was searching for.

He follows her. She transports what he seeks. He clenches his right fist. The bow does not retard its appearance.

 _Guide me._

The bow does.

Issei feels his muscles move, hear his movements and see his finger handle the weapon as if he had been born for it, born with it. It should be extremely worrying to have a magical piece of wood controls his body; it is not. It's right.

The bow hums a happy tune. Issei lets go of its string and even though he felt nothing besides the coarse material, even as his brain recognizes he fired nothing, he knows what will happen. It's a whisper in his bones, a knowledge of his soul.

The pot of hibiscus the nurse walked by explodes.

Her strangled yelp does not equal Issei's efforts.

Her scream when she understand what kind of freak accident just happened to her does. She runs, runs like her bouncing little balls of fat she considers legs have never run before. In her panic, she only sees a looming shadow by her fallen trolley.

Issei slackens his grip on the bow. It disappears, clinging back to skin-covered territory.

Later, when a sleep deprived security guard comes hastily, he does not nor will notice for a few precious minutes that a syringe and a bottle of disinfectant have disappeared from the frightened nurse's trolley who collapsed at his feet, howling about a bomb.

Issei has calmly pocketed the stolen items and sauntered in another direction a long time ago.

He doesn't find his mother in the room his memories identify as hers. A new name slates the door. Issei pushes the door ajar and peers into darkness. A scent that does not belong to his family, to his mother, permeates the air. It smells like musk and old sweat.

They moved her. That's not a good news.

How is he going to find her? Does he have to forget prudence and scare the hell out of the whole damn hospital's staff?

Issei hears their footsteps long before he sees them. He looks up and lets go of his plans to terrorize the whole town. He leans against a wall.

Two women are talking, walking down the hallway in a manner that is neither too fast nor too slow.

Issei hates it anyway. His right hand's knuckles twitch.

The two nurses do not turn their head. They do not notice the boy resting against a wall, playing with the hem of coat as he watches them with unblinking eyes.

"No visits for room 376, eh."

"The only visit she will probably get is when her husband will come sign the papers."

"Even then, do you really think he will go see her? Signing papers don't mean he will. That sort of thing, you do in the doctor's office, not in here."

Issei stays glued to his wall long after their voices have fallen to an imperceptible lull, distant and ghostly.

Room 376, eh.

He saunters down the bright hallway. The teen stares at numbers as they go up, from 200 to 300. He jumps up a flight of stairs or two. Finally, he finds the room. Predictably, it is his mother's name that decorates it. Life is sometimes a convenient story teller.

He plays with the doorknob. Unlocked. He grasps it with both hands. And doesn't turn it. His mother is on the other side. Their fate is on the other side. He can't be weak now. He shudders a breath out. It's gonna be alright. It's gonna be alright.

... please.

Issei pushes the door to his and her fate open.

He blinks the darkness away. A familiar scent caresses him. Slow beats hit his ears.

A form rests on a lonely bed.

He wobbles his way to her.

Hyoudou, née Hayashi, Hikari does not resemble the memories he has of his mother. Ghostly skin does not glow in the dark twilight of her room. Black hair has disappeared, leaving a bluish canvas of bones behind. She is so small.

His fingers find their way to her gaunt cheek. They shake as they touch paper-like matter.

The skin he grazes doesn't feel human. Bereft of her warmth, bereft of her luster, bereft of her soul, bereft of her life.

She doesn't murmur his name with a voice he has forgotten. Her eyelids quiver. Or at least, Issei thinks they do.

Issei mimics the nurses and doctors he observed on his phone. He takes the bottle of disinfectant, the syringe, his vial and the Glorygold out. He snuggles the flower against her skull. It starts its burning dance, free to heal and hurt.

(The Phenex did not choose their flower for its jolly flames and burning passions. They share attributes no others can copy.)

He cleans and scrubs the hollow of her elbow until it's bright and ready.

The son breathes in. He inserts the syringe and a drip of red magic fills the syringe.

He puts the sharp tool against her transparent skin, in the hollow of her elbow. Finding a vein is not difficult; they appear, faded snakes of green blue under her parchment skin. He pinches her fragile skin between his growing nails. He plods her flesh until he finds the vein he is searching for. Her artery is thin, but he is sure it is what it is. The spot is right and the thin tube looks relatively bigger than the others.

He inserts the tip of the syringe in.

He pushes forcefully and empties the syringe in before the tear can be tainted by blood outside of her body.

The beats of the heart machine go up.

Issei stills. The Glorygold dances.

Her eyelids stay closed.

He says a very bad word his mother would have been horrified to hear.

A door creaks.

He sits, immobile as a statue. The Glorygold waltzes.

Nothing.

He learns to breath again. He sits by her side. He plays with the straps of the respirator that devours her face.

She stirs.

He stops breathing. Hope crashes all pretenses of calm. He rips her mask off. His fingers curl her chin.

"Hey, mom."

Her eyelids flutter open. Issei dares not, cannot hope everything is good-

She closes her eyes.

A part of him is relieved. Ah. He failed. It's finally finished. The others parts howl and scream their anguish.

He grasps her hand. Her brittle bones barely hold their own against his forceful embrace.

"Stay with me, mom," he begs.

She breathes feebly under the rough fingers that search for her pulse.

"Issei." She murmurs. He can see how much effort it demands of her, to just say his name. Her eyes are wavering between him and a tunnel of light where pain is but a word and gentle hands are waiting for her.

Her eyelids flutter, eyes unfocusing and focusing on her son.

He holds the vial over her chapped lips. His fingers pry her jaw open, pushing on stoned muscles and granitic bones. He tips the vial until a drop of liquid dances on the edge. "Drink, mom. Drink," he begs.

Brown eyes focus on a trembling boy.

A tear falls on a frozen tongue. "There. Swallow." He massages her throat until he feels her muscles ripple and move under her skin. "There. You're good. You're good."

He peppers her forehead with kisses. "You're okay. You're okay,mom!" She whimpers a complaint.

Issei stops his attack with a start. He helps her up. "Who am I?"

She blinks artificially sleepy eyes. "Ise."

"Yeah. It's me." He acknowledges himself like he used to. His hope is soaring high and it must not crash. "I'm back."

He grabs her hands. "Do you know where you are?" he ask.

"The… hospital?" She answers slowly.

"Yes. Yes. We're in the hospital." Issei can't help it. He laughs. His eyes burn and gosh, he must look mad.

His mother looks so lost he has to stop. She doesn't need madness when her own just left.

She's blinking and feebly scratching the dust of artificial sleep out of her eyes. She squirms and stares at her Glorygold. It still dance to an unknown song, burning softly through her pillows.

He buries his head the place between her neck and her collarbone, forehead pushing against a pillow smelling of better days. For a blessed moment, his life has gone back to the way it was before his mother collapsed on the kitchen's floor.

He is Hayashi Issei, thirteen years old of age. Human. Weird Human.

And he is hugging his mom and no one will stop him.

There will be time. They have time!

Her arms, hindered by wires and weeks of inaction, tremble to grab his clothes. She grasps his clothes and they're locked in an embrace.

"I missed you so much."

The only sound is the continuous beeping of the heart monitor. It's going faster and faster. Issei glances at it. His mother's heartbeat are displayed on it, changing erratically to higher numbers. He rips a cord out of its plug and it screeches a whimper before it goes silent for good.

Even with a little freaky bombing accident, Issei wouldn't forsake the possibility of an overly concerned nurse making her way to his mother's room.

He pockets the vial with its last drop of miracle tears and holds his mother's hand.

* * *

That's the end of the first arc.

I'm going into silence for a week (which means I'll be away from my computer for a week.). Then I'll be back with more. I take full responsibilities for the weird errors you might see: I wrote the last part on my dingy ? I hate this and will never do it again. Respect for the soldiers who do this everyday!

18/02/2019


	11. Love Is But A Mother's Laugh

"Sir, we cannot possibly hide this. A woman disappeared." A man who seems to be a doctor by the looks of his shriveled white coat coupled with a young scratchy beard, flails his arms in a grand gesture of incomprehension. His convulsing hands pat his pockets in search of a little box of cancer-giving, stress-relieving burning sticks. He stops himself before his nervous fingers spill the entirety of the box on the ground. He clenches his fist around the package.

Another doctor, one who was unabashedly smoking by an opened window, sneers as he extinguishes the remains of a cig's butt against the wooden sill. His dark, half-lidded eyes offer nothing but contempt. "We can and we should."

Silence is the only thing the last man, siting behind a creaking desk, offers.

Three men, two opposing opinions. A dim-lit room. Winter wind against goose bumps.

It is such a picture that delivered itself to the tightly locked office of the director of Kuoh Hospital.

The director links his hands over a never-disappearing heap of papers. The little warmth they exchange does not stop the cold that pierces his bones.

"Beside, she's dead." The dark-eyed man spits out as he lights another cigarette. The flame of his lighter sparks brown flecks in his eyes and brings a twisted remorse to his face that is snuffed out as easily as his fire-igniter is put to rest, safely secured in his pocket.

"What do you mean, Tokou?" asks the first doctor. A cigarette falls from his trembling hand and rolls under the director's massive desk.

No one tries to reach for it.

The director unlinks his hands. He leans forward and listens.

"Kusogiri," the smoking professional sighs the name out exasperatedly. He turns to their boss with an explanation ready for a more intelligent mortal. "Director, she is dead. She was in catatonic state. Moving her from her equipment, from her respirator, made sure she would die."

Kusogiri pats his coat's pockets. He fishes inside, jostling and clinking tiny forgotten things around. He finally leaves them be when his hand comes out with a cheap blue lighter. "So it's a murder. The cops need to be notified. It could be one of us," he shakes the words out.

The director stays silent, a statue of seriousness and severity. Tokou snorts.

Kusogiri's head makes a sharp turn. "Are you comfortable working with a murderer?"

"People die in a hospital. Especially in that wing. If we go by your childish logic, any doctor or nurse that unplugs a living corpse is a murderer."

Kusogiri shifts, weight going from one leg to another. His thumb plays uselessly with the wheel of his lighter, sparking nothing. "They didn't simply unplug her. They took her. And what about that exploded pot in the hallway?"

Tokou puffs a long cloud of smoke out. His twisted lips around his cig show yellow teeth and urgent derision. "If people went through so much to steal a corpse, you can be sure they will do far more to cover their tracks. In ways you can't start to even imagine."

Another long puff, followed by a shorter one and a cough. Kusogiri continues to turn and use the wheel of his lighter. He frowns and opens his mouth.

Tokou cuts him off before he has the time to voice any of his internal struggling. "But you are always so righteous." He sneers. "Do you not understand the police will come here and investigate? They will ask for files, for everything. They might stumble on other business while they're here. Even you have things you prefer to keep away from their eyes."

"Sir." Kusogiri, turns towards their superior with a nervous jolt. He doesn't deny his colleague's accusation. He toys with his crumbled box of cigs. "What are we going to tell her husband?"

Their chief flickers his gaze towards the high windows that let the budding sunrise in. His spotted and wrinkled hands stay flat on his papers, hiding from view their content to wandering and curious eyes. When he focuses back on his employees, his grave and exhausted countenance takes on a somber air.

"Do you have something to add, Tokou?" he first asks his most controversial aid.

Tokou nods and comes closer to the desk. When only a nice plank of wood garnished with papers and homely family photos stands between them, he whispers. "We have a few unnamed, unclaimed bodies in the morgue. I know the chief of the crematorium. The guys there will not talk. They know to keep their mouth shut, with the amount of stuff they've seen."

Kusogiri lets his box of cheap cigs fall to the ground. "This is despicable."

Tokou doesn't even turn his head, doesn't break eye contact with the director. "As much as your business with that married, male nurse."

Kusogiri covers his left hand with a startle. He blankets from view a tiny, plain band that hugs his ring finger. It represents his marriage with a woman his staff believes him to love dearly. "How-"

The director frowns. Personal matters are distasteful to bring up in such a setting. This one, more than any others. "Enough. I asked for your opinion, not your squabbling." The older man sends a pointed glance at the sneering doctor. It serves as a silent warning of sort.

Tokou doesn't back down under the furrowed gaze of his superior. "Sir, the hospital will have to offer a settlement to Mister Hyoudou. We cannot afford this. We cannot afford another scandal."

"We cannot afford to house a murderer or its accomplice either!"

The director raises his hand high in the air. "Enough, I said," he rumbles.

The two doctors still. Tokou presses his lips together while his co-worker slaps his mouth shut. They know better than to continue bickering like two old grandmas fighting for the same loaf of bread in front of their boss. There is a limit to his patience. Getting fired just after the winter holiday doesn't sound that good of an idea.

The director sighs. He massages the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. Silence permeates the air. A cold wind brushes the curtains of his office. It travels around the room like a snake, twirling and twisting with coldness and promises of death. The winter holidays can either be a happy occurrence or a final one in people's life. Those who are left behind, those who have nobody, they often fill the morgue during this time of the year.

"Kusogiri. There will be an investigation." The director glances at the Devil's advocate. "Tokou. It will be a private one."

The director resolutely casts his gaze downward after his decision has been made.

"Yes, sir." Tokou nods and drags an unwilling Kusogiri by the collar before he can spew more stupidities about the murky waters they have found themselves in.

The familiar creak of an old door being closed softly echoes.

The director, left alone to his silence and thoughts, relaxes his back against the dossier of his chair. He eyes his desk. Closes his eyes. Opens them. Closes them. Sighs. Opens his eyes and blinks tiredly.

With a swipe, he pushes the blank paper away from the top of the heap of papers that so neatly keep his family photos out of his view. Under that blank paper, a death certificate for a comatose woman bears no signature. Written by the hospital computers, it claims the poor woman was brain dead and thus unplugged with her husband's blessing. Under it are the papers her husband did sign the morning of the fateful day Hyoudou Hikari mysteriously disappeared. Whoever did this corpse's kidnapping know, they knew and acted, and this knowledge does not help his heart find peace.

The director does not remember the man's face. He was not the one who met him to legalize the liberation of his hospital's bed, but Kusogiri assured him he met Mister Hyoudou in passing and even shook his hand.

"Despicable is the word." He murmurs as the ink of his pen stains the death certificate with his signature.

On the 23th of December, Hyoudou Hikari died. Brain failure. Nothing could have saved her, not even a miracle.

* * *

"Mom."

Hayashi Hikari turns her head and her faraway eyes focus on him. He marvels at the attention. "D-do you want apple juice or green tea?" He feels a little stupid to call for her attention for such a small matter, but she needs to stay hydrated. The teen holds high the bottle of juice and the pitiful bag of crumpled tea he found in the bottom of his bag, next to his not-smelly socks. Juice's full of vitamins and sugar and shit. Green tea is great for the body, any Japanese with a grain of knowledge know that.

(Ah. Can't he admit the truth, even to himself? He needs to know she's not going anywhere. Her mind has to stay with him. His mind will go down the drain and straight into the sewers of insanity if after the whole fuckery that was the Underworld, his mother is still out of his reach.)

He clenches his fist around the bottle of juice and imagines he is strangling his thoughts.

"We have tea?" His mother shifts in her seat. She stretches her neck in her effort to peer at the options he holds in his hands. He takes a step forward, taunt for a fall that never happens. She's sitting straight and well.

She is so small in the clothes he bought. She is so small in the wheelchair he stole. His red scarf, draped over her bird-like shoulders, looks like a blanket. His checkered tuque is almost too big for her, covering her thin eyebrows from view and making ripples around her nape. Her blankets overwhelms her form, but he refuses to let her take it off. He put the Glorygold seal inside; the dancing, fiery flower will keep her safe ans sound.

To hide his internal fascination (turmoil), Issei jiggles the crumpled bag of tea with a smile he wants to be conniving. He remembered her favorite drink right. They share their love for tea. Shared. "Water's already boiling."

"Why…" His mother muffles a chuckle behind her hand. The action is all too familiar and Issei's heart is melting. "Why do you even ask, then."

Issei glances at the tiny kettle he had turned on before he asked for her preference, just in case, to be sure she did want tea. Making her wait would have been distasteful. He filled the little thing with two cups worth of water. Two cups. One for her to drink. One for him to hide behind. He doesn't want to drink or smell the thing for a while. It will do a fine job at hiding his face, though.

He twists his mouth in a semblance of a smile. "I just wanted to make sure."

A tenuous wisp of warm cloud is already leaving the beak of the kettle. Soon, the telltale sound of boiling will bubble from it too.

He turns it off before his ears pick on any sounds. Into two plastic cups goes his crumpled green tea. His cup gets a sprinkle. His mother's gets a generous spoonful.

He comes to her with a smile and a not-steaming cup of slowly unraveling tea. He puts it down in front of her, on the little nightstand he moved so she could have a table where she could put things down if they were too heavy for her hands. Or just to throw the things that are bothering her in any ways somewhere.

His mother smiles as she bends to reach for her cup and really, it would have been better if he had just given her the damn thing directly. He can't do a single thing right.

He plasters a smile on his face to return hers anyway. He sits on the edge of the bed on which she dozed off after their adventure of the night. He was content to stare at her from there during those horrible hours where her chest would imperceptibly go up and then go down in her slumber. He bit his knuckles and scraped his teeth against his bones. Her chest always went up though.

She's still breathing fine, even now.

Issei still wants to abuse his knuckles. He controls the urge. What would his mother think, feel if he started gnawing on his hands like some sort of deranged beasts? He prefers to die on the spot than to be the reason she goes into shock. He won't be the reason she's shipped back to Kuoh hospital and its gloomy hallways haunted by wild teens and other nefarious monsters.

His innards twist on themselves. He watches as she sips her tea with a contented hum. He bought snacks, but no real, solid food. She already had some light, fake miso soup as breakfast. It did not upset her fragile, awaken organs. She needs something heavier. He does, too.

He moistens his lips. His teeth inadvertently scratch his bottom lip. "Do you want to eat out? Or I can get us some food and we can cook something in the hostel's kitchen."

It's something they apparently can do, according to the hostel's manual laying on the ground. He read it to pass the time, to stay awake, to stop obsessing over the falls and the ups of her breath. He learnt something useful out of that dry experience.

His mother purses her bottom lip. Ah. He got that from her too. "How about we cook some fish?"

"Fish and rice?" He asks. Light enough. Simple too. It wouldn't upset her fragile stomach. Hopefully.

"Fish and rice." She nods in ascent.

The familiarity of her favorite would make him all fuzzy and warm inside, if his offer hadn't caused another unforeseen problem to appear out of nowhere.

Does he leave her here while he goes to buy food?

Either he takes her with him so she doesn't get out of his sight and she might be recognized by someone, either he leaves her in a false sense of safety in a room they are supposed to vacate in a few hours.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Issei gulps down a dozen explanations as to why they can't eat ever again, actually. He ducks his head, hunching his shoulders under her gaze, sinking into a seemingly admiration for the pale color of his tea.

That man did not recognize him, and his face was almost directly next to his photo, he reasons. Nobody will recognize her. Their eyes might see, but their mind does not compute the information.

Plus… Plus, Hayashi Hikari looks young. She isn't old per say. She had him pretty young, he has to admit. His parents fell in love hard and marriage talks came easily and quickly. Baby Issei was on the way before they had the time to say 'Honeymoon!'. Or so the story his parents told him at bedtime goes. The registry of the hospital told another story. A story of misfortune, miscarriages, and two stillborn baby girls who never had a chance to taste the crispy polluted air of their world and be taken to a tiny river that turns and swivels, flower's petals or fallen leaves dancing and riding its current.

Hairless, paler than fresh snow and skinnier than the digitally models that pollutes teen magazines, his mother, against all reasons, does not look ten years older than her real age. She looks impossibly younger.

Her sickly pale cheeks are slowly turning a healthy rosy color. The tea is perhaps to blame. Issei prefers to blame the swirling Phenex tears he gave her.

Still. He cannot spend all his time marveling at her returned health. He needs to focus. Focus. Oh, one of her eyelash fell on her cheek, maybe he should-

Issei forcefully tears his gaze away from his mother's cheek and fallen eyelash and entire being.

He has rejoiced enough already. Now, what's the plan?

There is no way he can logically explain why she looks so young and healthy to anybody who might notice their real identities. No way. They will attract attention. Normal humans and abnormal ones will flock towards them. The Supernatural part of their world might even notice something's incredibly weird with her recovery from a lethal cancerous tumor in her brain. If they find her, they will find him.

Issei's not enthused with the idea of anybody 'finding' him. It brings too many uncertainties. What they will do will decide his next course of action, but some routes he prefers to others. His favorite is where people leave him be with his family, leave him live a normal life without forcing him into an impossible situation. Will they do that, though? Issei has never been the most optimistic guy in the universe, and even such a person would probably not think such an outcome possible.

… they cannot stay in Kuoh. For his safety and hers.

He glances up from his seemingly fascinating cup of warm tea. His mother takes her gaze off him and observes the wall with the upmost attention. They are both so, so awkward.

His mother does not ask him anything, even now. She… respects his silence. (She probably doesn't know what to ask or how to do it, really.)

Or perhaps the drugs she was constantly fed in her vegetative state has something to do with her dull acceptance of his reticence to speak and her unexplainable rescue.

He does not probe her mind, does not ask if she has wandering thoughts, does not help her out of their silence. He refuses to address the internal turmoil they are both facing. He does not dare to. Her silent questions and wild musings, if they were voiced, he wouldn't necessarily know how to answer them. He doesn't know if there is anything he can be honest about with her.

So he slides from the bed, takes his dead phone he left on the hostel's manual and plugs it by the empty space where the nightstand used to stand. He hesitates to sink to his knees there, hidden by the bulky bed from his mother's gaze. If he is hidden from her view, she is hidden from his. He sits back on the bed, butt on pillows and back against the hard board.

His mother is staring through the window at the naked trees and cement of their town. Her shoulders, covered by his scarf, go up and down gently with each of her deep breaths.

He looks down, staring at the screen of his reanimated phone. A new message has been waiting for him for a day now. The person who wrote it has probably eaten her entire set of nails, facing his day long silence.

Issei erases the 'sorry' he typed by reflex. They're family. No need for useless niceties nobody believes to be true.

He doesn't go read what her anxious mind may have written. Instead, Issei browses and browses the web, going deep and finding many unpleasant things, only to come to the grim conclusion that trying to move anywhere in Japan during the winter holidays, without having booked at least a few months in advance, is impossible. Everything, from bus tickets to train and plane, is taken. He would need a small fortune to get out of Kuoh now.

The other option is out of the question the moment his rotten brain remembers he has a working seal. He said his goodbye to the guardian. He said his goodbye to the Underworld. He is not using the Underworld Train and neither will his mother. They need something else. That something else does not exist, apparently.

Homeless and incapable of moving.

What a shitty reality.

He pinches his lips together. Now, he is in the right state of mind to talk with his grandmother. Whatever she has to say, it won't make him anymore unhappy. His dying optimistic side musters the strength to whisper that she could be the harbinger of good news. His realist side snickers at the thought.

[Are you well.] His grandmother typed that a day ago.

It's not a bad start. She didn't start by berating him for his disappearing act. He swipes his thumb over the surface of the screen.

[I am.]

Not, time will tell him if she is a reliable-

His phone buzzes to life in his hands. He checks it with raised brows. His grandma has learnt to type fast.

[Come home.]

Issei surveys his fingers. His nails are almost at a normal length now. A strange white part has spouted from his fingers, going father than the tender flesh his nails are supposed to protect. When he straightens his curled fingers forcefully, a band of pink meat under his nails turn white, as if it was pushing his nails, ready to break free. Is he really going to gnaw on them? Oh yes, he is. He chooses his pinky as his first victim. [Don't tell your son about this.] He types.

His phone vibrates in his hand. [I won't.]

 _Hard to believe._

Another vibration trembles throughout his arm. [Your mother's funeral is in two days. They are going to cremate her body.]

Issei glances at his mother. She is staring at him, rocking her cup between her hands. Her thin bones are covered by a paper-like layer of skin and they somehow succeed in being paler than her white cup. She does not ask him who he is texting. She is breathing and alive and focused and oh, they're burning another corpse to cover up, aren't they?

His phone buzzes.

[She will be put in her family's vault.]

Issei tears off a good chunk of his once healthy nail. Blood seeps from the broken edge. He tastes metal and his teeth search for remains of jutting wisps of flesh.

"Issei." A hoarse voice calls him. The tee looks up. His mother tilts her head. "Come here."

He turns off his phone against his thigh before she has a chance to see the thread of messages he exchanged with his grandmother and her estranged mother-in-law. She does not need to be shocked right now. She needs peace and quiet. Peace and quiet.

Where is he supposed to find that?

He puts his phone on the table that stands before them. It clinks loudly as it meets its polished wood surface.

He remembers a house made of wood and memories.

He slides his butt on the bed as gracefully as a swaggering duck to get to the side of her wheelchair. "What is it?"

She reaches her arms out. He shifts and hunkers.

A hand brushes against his skin. His mother takes his abused hand in her own. Feather-like touch traces the bruises he made along his knuckles during the night. She massages his knuckles softly, silently. She covers his bloody finger.

Issei wants to explain, find a stupid reason why he is like that, but he has none to offer. He has a feeling she wouldn't believe his lies. It's a novelty, this situation. She is sane and well, and he has to be truthful now. His lies would have to be perfectly crafted to not be noticed. Hayashi Hikari knows his tells, she knows him.

His mother lets go of his hand and sighs. He pulls his limb out of her surrounding and on his lap. He reaches for his cup with his other hand to hide his face behind something. The sip he dares to take burns his tongue. He gulps it down anyway. It burns and flares its way to his stomach too slowly. There's a fire in his belly.

There is a hell storm of questions and pity and sadness in his mother's limpid eyes.

He gulps down. His throat is filled with shards of broken glass. He nurses his cup between his two hands and faces his mother. "Do you think grandma will be unhappy if we come a few days before the 4th?"

She takes her time to answer him, mulling over her response. He likes that habit of hers. She really does think before she speaks. It makes her look serious in any situation. It makes her interlocutors feel important; cared for. That's what Issei feels, anyway.

Her brows crinkle as she opens her mouth. "I think she will be delighted. After the heart attack we will cause."

"A heart attack, really?" He chuckles his jitters away.

"She will survive," his mother answers softly. She smooths an edge of her scarf mindlessly. "She lived through worst."

Issei would have thought it a jest a few months ago. Now, though. Now, he sees how the corner of his mother's eyes do not crinkle up, how mischievousness does not spark her gaze alight after she uttered words that could have passed as a joke. If his family has secrets that can threaten their safety, he will uncover them only to dig a deeper pit for them and burn them until not even the ashes of a skeleton remain.

He edges closer to her seat. "Do you want to go there? Stay at grandma's?"

Please say yes. (Please say no.)

Her eyes are trained on him, yet he feels she has gone somewhere else in the way she nibbles on her bottom lips, the way her right hand smoothes the nonexistent wrinkles of the red scarf that hangs loosely around her brittle collarbone. "I haven't seen the mountains in a while, haven't I?"

'In a while.' That is a way to say it, yes. "No."

She blinks. Her nibbling on her reddening lip stops and suddenly, his mother is back on her wheelchair, at his side. "How long was I… out of it?"

"A year." More or less. Issei can't find the exact number. His head hurts. So much over thinking and so little sleep.

Another silence stands between them after he spills the truth out. He wonders if holding her hand between his will soothe the conflicted emotions that flicker on her face and that he cannot truly read. He offered her the truth and he can't help but to internally start to eat metaphorical nails. Was it a foolish move his tired brain made? Would have silencing the truth done any bad?

Her fingers play with the frayed end of his scarf. Her movement brings him back to the present and his distressed parent.

"I don't remember all of it. Pieces, moments, that book about Japanese trees we read, the time you cooked that horrible fish… I don't, something is missing. I was losing my mind," she murmurs, limpid eyes staring at him, staring at his soul.

"Yes." Issei doesn't want to lie anymore. Not to her.

"I feel better now." She follows the seam of the blanket Issei ripped from her bed with her bony fingers. "You gave me something," his mother says softly, and her words form a question.

Issei thinks of red tears and red blood and everything that happened in between. His mother sure is clever. He doesn't think he inherited that from her and that's a true pity. He stays silent.

"Issei." She grasps his hand there, and for a person who was in a vegetative state a day ago, her grip is strong and steady. "I remember losing my mind. I feel like it hasn't ended yet. Tell me."

"I don't know how," he mutters.

"Talk to me." She shakes his hand when her son avoids her gaze, her questions and her affection. "Issei. Talk to your mother."

So her son gives in, for he knows what insanity feels like. "Would you care for a story, mom?"

"A story?"

He covers the small hand that grasps his own with his free limb. His hands are bigger than hers now. She has always had hands that were not much bigger or thicker than that of a child's, he recalls. Small, soft, almost boneless, it is as he remembers it. She is as he always knew her; a caring parent. It's refreshing to know somebody did not change through the events.

He nods and smiles. For once, it does not feel forced. "A story in a book. It might take me some times to get it for you, but I think reading it will be worth the wait."

She sighs, but Issei knows everything's okay, because her sigh sounds like the beginning of a chuckle. "The author seems to be a very busy man."

He caresses her white knuckles under her white skin with hands he hopes are warm enough to chase away the cold. He does it the way she did when she stopped him from biting his nails off. "He is. He's all over the place," he admits.

She lets him play with her hands. A strange feeling has overtaken them, something that is far from the angst of unanswered questions and fear of tomorrows. "What does he do, when he is not all over the place?" she asks, a smile tugging her thin lips upwards. Colors decorated her cheekbones and they are there to stay.

Issei looks around, searching for inspiration. It strikes him quickly. He abandons her hands and reaches for his cup of tea. He raises it to her eye level. Lukewarm tea swivels out and onto his fingers. His pinky burns when a drop of liquid seeps into his opened wound. He smiles through the burns. His mother is watching and she needs laughter. He does too. "He drinks tea."

He goes for a sip and grins against the rim of his cheap plastic cup when she laughs.

* * *

Second arc is here, darling readers. Ready for the ride?

16/04/2019


	12. Laugh Is But A Theft

Issei stares at the door of the bathroom fixedly. His ears pick up the sounds of the ripples his mother makes as she shifts in the warm water. His back is resting against the white plastic side of the bath. He can almost feel the warmth of the water that swivels with each of her movements. Is it too hot? Too cold? She has said nothing since he sat down. Is she asleep?

He fights the urge to turn his head. Instead, he lets his head fall on the hard edge of her wheelchair. He scratches his temple, searching a little bit of comfort where metal can only offer him the smell of a prison and the toughness of bars.

"Mom?" he whispers.

He hears a ripple in the water. "…yes?"

"Everything's okay?" He tries to speak louder, but his throat chokes the last syllable.

"…yes." Her answer echoes like a question.

Issei gnaws on his bottom lip. He forced her to take a bath. He shouldn't have. She's probably mad at him, now.

The telling smell needed to disappear and only a good warm bath could have done the job. His mother had looked downright mortified when he offered to simply wipe down her body. He didn't remember her so prudish. Although he had never offered nor had to make her take a bath before, so that's maybe why he never saw that side of her. Their neighbor always helped his mother for everything concerning hygiene. He hadn't to worry about it before.

She needed a bath, his mind whispers. She had to take one. He is staying just in case she needs help. Better be by her side than busy resetting his memories for her story.

He pinches his thigh. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The end doesn't justify the means. It must not.

"I'm done."

He stands so fast his back pop. Dizziness hits him and ouch, he should have had more of that fish and rice thingy. Drinking lots of water isn't doing the trick anymore. Not when he ran everywhere to get the foodstuff for their little feast, panting and dying and still running with dots swinging across his vision because he had dared to bet on his mother's soundness of mind and he feared his bet would let him down somehow. He came back to their room sweating rivers to find his mother perfectly fine and happy to see him back. She had chuckled at his haste to see her again. The gesture was familiar, like her way of ordering him around as he slightly overcooked the fish but did a magnificent job with the rice in the kitchen. Even there, his heart was running a marathon. He didn't want her to stay in the communal kitchen of the hotel too long. Someone might have seen them. Someone might have seen them and recognized them.

They ate in their room. Well, she ate.

He clings to the sink counter and masks his dizziness by roughly grabbing her towels.

He hands them over without turning, without facing her. The bath's bottom is not curved. It's flat. She will not fall. He will give her modesty this little mercy. "There you go."

He closes his eyes and turn. He bends down, hands open to catch her own. His right leg wavers. _Steady, steady, stay steady damn it._

His mother grasps his hands. "You can pull me."

So he does.

He hears, feels her movements. Wet feet meet the carpet and her warmth brushes him. He stands upright, helping her as much as he can without touching too much. She leads his arms, smelling like water and vanilla shampoo. He bends, following her frame. His eyelids quiver, but he doesn't open his eyes.

Her wheelchair creaks.

She is seated.

Issei turns around and opens his eyes.

It went better than expected.

He sags against the sink. Her leg hits his. He jolts.

They're too close. He is hindering her, he knows. He takes two large steps forward decisively. His nose meets wood covered by cheap paint.

Imperfections on its supposedly smooth surface do not disappear when he is closer. If anything, his closeness deepens their grotesque; a simple spot becomes a crater of dirt and old mold. The whole door looks like the photos of the Moon he has seen on the Net. The Moon people who do not leave in crowded cities can see. The Moon he wanted to see, once upon a time.

He glares at a dark stain made of mushroom and anxiety, twists his neck just a bit and catches a glimpse of pale skin on the mirror. He glues his eyes back to the door of the bathroom. He could open it. The heat and steam wouldn't suffocate him so much if he did. But his mother needs the warmth. Or does she? Should she be surrounded by cold?

He searches in his memories as he eyes the ceiling. His grandmother did say something about heat and cold when one is cold… Ah, yes. Warmth is better. Perspiration takes all the bad things from your body. It's better to sweat.

Issei will not open the door, then. He can survive the heat. His mother needs the heat.

He shifts. His eyes find a new dark spot to explore. His fingers play with the broken seam of his worn t-shirt.

His ears pick up the sound of crumpled clothes. His mother sighs. Coarse fabric rustles against fragile skin.

This is all very much awkward. Why did he need to stay in here, again? Ah, yes, his mother was comatose 2 days ago. He's thinking like a dumbass again.

A hand touches his thigh. Issei jostles. He bites his lips. The whimper stays suffocated in his closed mouth.

"I'm done," his mother chirps a bit too happily.

Her son unstuck his teeth from his hurt bottom lip. He turns his head smiles. The movement pains him. Why is he always faking? He tastes blood and keeps smiling.

He opens the door with a twist of his wrist. Cold air infiltrates the steaming bathroom. He grasps the handles of her wheelchair and back palls slowly into their room.

"It's your turn," his mother commands from her throne. She glances at him and smiles. "You need a shower."

Issei does not discreetly bend his neck to smell his armpits. Hmm. She isn't wrong. Smelly teen is smelly. He smells like his school's gym's locker room. Absolutely disgusting. He just needs stains of unknown origin in weird spots and a suffocating promiscuity with other smelly teens to be right back at the place where he didn't dare to change in, because his clothes had the habit of disappearing and the shame of going outside in only his boxers to get the teacher has not left him yet.

School. Great memories he made there, eh.

He rolls his mother back to her spot by the window. He grasps a corner or her blanket he so carelessly threw on the bed and covers her from her shoulders to her feet. The part with the Glorygold seal is put against her heart. He turns and bunches the blanket around her as if it were a cocoon to protect his fragile butterfly.

A fragile butterfly that wiggles an arm free the moment he delicately removes his hands from under her. "Do you have anything to read?" she asks as she wiggles her other arm free. Issei reigns on his desire to adjust her blanket again. "I think I saw some magazines by the TV."

Issei looks under the TV. She is right. He grabs a few gilded women's mags haphazardly and places them on her makeshift table, by her knees. Close enough to be taken, far enough from the edge to not fall thanks to gravity. "There you go."

She hums a thanks.

He hums in return.

Humming is a family thing alright. Issei smiles crookedly. When was the last time they had a family thing? His gaze falls on her fingers that flip shiny pages with ease. Bony, they are. In better condition than his, they are too. His eyes follow the arch of her arm, the slope of her neck, the checkered pattern of his wool tuque turned hers, to meet hazel eyes.

"Shower, Issei," she reminds him. The corners of her eyes are going toward the sky. Issei blinks and a part of him shivers. No cracks of age decorate her amused gaze.

He makes a beeline for his bag.

He flicks his phone into his mess and waddles back to the bathroom. He hasn't checked it since yesterday.

His grandmother can stew in her juices for a little bit longer. He disappeared for 2 weeks; it's not that much of a difference at this point. At least she knows he is alive and still peppy about gutting his biological sire.

Talking of stewing, his mother did need a bath. She didn't stink per say; she smelled like the hospital's detergent. It was a telling smell. Telling smell had to disappear.

Telling smell had to disappear so he wouldn't go insane, thinking about the hospital and the fact that they are so close to it, so close to the crime scene. Nobody has found them yet. How long until they do? How long until they drag them in a lab to observe his mysterious bow and her miraculous wellbeing.

Issei pushes the door of the bathroom closes, but barely so. Colder air comes and goes as it pleases from the crack left by the ajar door. He can't lock it. If something happens on the other side, he must be able to tear it open. From his bag, he fishes out some not too crumpled clothes and his notebooks. Reasonably thinking, he has fifteen minutes before his mother might consider something is amiss.

Leaving her unattended for fifteen minutes, with a paper-thin wall between them, will also give her the time to be less mad with his pushiness.

He promised her a story. He might as well start now. He finds a pen that's not completely dry in a small front pocket of his bag, stuck between dry grass and crumbles of a sad, abandoned cookie.

He flips a notebook opens. It's overflowing with facts and information about the Underworld and tear stains. A faded brown smear, part of a bigger picture of dots and shapeless stains soiled the curled paper. She might recognize it as an old bloodstain. She might also not.

Her questions would be damning all the same.

It is stuffed in the very depth of his bag, under many smelly or personal things his mother shouldn't seek out actively. He reaches for another, one that will hopefully be unused.

His fingertips brush cool paper, crumpled and fragile. He eyes the innards of his bag. No title on the pastel blue cover.

Bingo.

He flicks it open. The writer clicks his pen open. The ballpoint touches immaculate paper and Issei is gone. He writes and writes and writes until words writ under his troubled gaze, and his fingers are red from holding too hard, and his wrist begs a respite. There are not enough words in his vocabulary to recount all that he has gone through. He probably will have to burn these pages after they are read by familiar brown eyes, lest they end in a mean spirited soul's hands (or a good one. Bashir and he know Hell is paved with good intentions indeed.)

He anchors his life with ink and grotesque handwriting to a few scattered pages.

"Issei?" A distant call breaks his rhythm. The point of his pen slides to a stop.

The teen closes his life's current chapter with a flip. He taps his phone open. He's been at it for more or less 8 minutes.

"Yes, mom?" He has a story ready about a rather dry and spicy poop before he is finished uttering those words.

"The front desk called." Oh, he didn't hear that. Is his hearing failing him too, now? "They said we have to vacate the room soon."

Issei drops the pen in his bag. That's an easy problem. Nothing in comparison to the shame of crying in front of his mother. Nothing compared to the awkwardness that lingers between them. He will wrestle a new room out of hostel's hands and they will thank him for it. "I will go talk with them."

Issei takes off his clothes with a spasm. The rancid odor of his shirt almost makes him gag. Shower. He doesn't have to smell like an ape to amiably take what he wants.

He glances at himself in the mirror, before his pants meet his shirt on the floor. He glances upwards again through his bangs. A faint outline decorates his right shoulder. It would almost be a tattoo if it wasn't white in color. It embraces his skin, tracing lighting along his veins from his collarbone to the nook of his elbow.

He doesn't resist the urge to poke the cradle of his elbow, pushing against pale skin, a jutting bone and twisting lines.

"Are you there?"

His skin tightens. Lines seem to move oh so slightly, tauntingly greeting him. Hello, host. You are ours.

Issei slowly takes his hand away from his haunted flesh, balling it into a fist.

His hands are not his anymore.

His throat is dry when he tries to gulp down his anxiety. _You already knew that, you stupid fuck. Why panic now? Don't panic, Issei. Don't fucking panic._

His gaze leaves what he cannot change and goes back to the mirror. It reflects the pursued lips of a teen, small and scrawny. White dots of past mistakes litter the flat surface and a crack snakes its way across a corner, breaking the reflection of his left hand into a bizarre world of mirrors. Pale skin, bloody lips, pale eyes, dark bags, pale soul, bleak soul. Issei observes himself. He observes the marks acne left on his face, ugly craters that will never leave. The hollow scar he got on his left arm when he fell from the diving board after one too many wild jumps. Everything changed in the span of a few weeks, yet he still looks the same-

Ah. Issei blinks. There is a change.

His shoulders are wider than his hips. He stares at the alien change in his body. So adolescence does give other things than smelly feet, uh. He raises his arms. No hair there. Yet. Just lightning in his right armpit cradling the flesh and swirling to join the other patterns that go to the interior of his elbow.

A buzz shakes his bag. He bends down on instinct and grabs his phone.

His grandmother sent him another message. Issei doesn't read it immediately.

He blinks as a stray idea becomes a viable scheme. His gaze flickers downwards and he allows himself to read. [Please give me a sign. I'm in Kuoh. Will you be there for the cremation?]

He types calmly as a plan takes root in his mind. Yes. It could work. He lightly taps the send button and seals his immediate future. [Let's meet in Kuoh. Before the cremation. In front of the crematorium.]

That wheel of fate pushed, he throws his phone back into his bag. There would be no epic manipulation and guilt trip to get another room in the hotel for free. How saw.

Issei touches his face. He plays with the nonexistent flesh of his cheeks. It needs a good scrubbing. He's got no pizza face anymore, but he might as well offer his best to his estranged grandma. He twists the hot water knob. Water splashes everywhere in the sink and burns his awaiting hands.

Issei doesn't take them away. He doesn't feel much in his right hand anymore, he could train his left hand to be the same.

* * *

He escapes the bathroom a whooping four minutes later, freshly clothed (or at least his clothes do not stink anymore), damp faced and ready to fight the world. And angry, wrinkly grandma, if he must.

He grabs the little things he hasn't already put in his bag. It becomes heavier with each new item. With a sigh, he internally admits they will have to leave their leftovers in the communal fridge, down in the shared kitchen. If their little meeting goes alright, someone will take them and eat them in their memory. Probably. If it doesn't go well, they will have some snacks for tonight.

His mother looks up from what looks like a mind-numbing read. She doesn't seem particularly interested by the new fashion of last season. It's not her kidn of nerdy. "What are you doing?"

Issei balls one last underwear into his bursting bag before he answers. "We're going to see grandma." He zips it up with difficulty. The seams are cracking, ready to vomit back what he forced them to ingest. His bag didn't get lighter, that's for sure.

The magazines fall on the ground with a crumple of plasticized paper.

Issei turns with a jostle.

His mother purses her thin lips. The corners of her eyes drop as her gaze lands on the ground and the mess of colorful pages at her feet. Her hands are flat on her knees, pressing and leaving their traces on her blanket. Her pale skull shines softly with the peeking sunlight. She is turning away from him.

He scrambles to her side. He grabs her hand in his own, covers her in his warmth and all the things that choke him speechless when he stares at her too long. "Mom, you need to trust me on this one. We need to go."

His mother blinks. For a terrible second, he sees hesitation in her glazed eyes. Issei clenches his jaw. "We're going to see grandma. Only her," he repeats softly.

And no man she once called her sweetheart, hopefully. The damn trash people call his father is still out the picture and he wants him out as long as possible. Issei has no need for trash. Trash belongs in a landfill. Not in his life.

He hopes his mother feels as he does.

She can't possibly love him, after all that has passed. The river of time and mistakes has torn them apart forever.

(Please, let it be so.)

Her boneless hand finds the little strength to lightly press his. "I thought we would have a little more time."

"I know. I'm sorry." It doesn't work with the plan. They can't keep his grandma away, lest she really has a heart attack. That would complicate everything immensely. He might start to feel sadness again. He has no time for sadness.

She quivers. Before he can ask what is wrong, she escapes his hold. "Let's go. Let's not make her wait," she commands with a poor smile.

He nods. He flicks the light off, takes his bag and off they go, her sitting and him pushing all the way to the elevator. He adjusts her tuques and scarf around her neck, hiding her face. He ducks his head, shoulders hunched high around his stiff neck. Seconds are spread across time, slow and painful, as they wait for the soft ding of the elevator that will take them downstairs.

A soft sound permits them entrance into their cage.

The descent is thankfully lonely. No one takes the elevator with them, leaving them to their awkwardness. Their stomachs drop and climb their spine with the descent.

Another ding decorates their silence. The slow opening of the sliding doors feels like torture. Issei pushes forward silently into the lobby. He will not give the key back. Not if the meeting doesn't go as planned. They need a bed, a roof if his grandmother refuses to shelter her flesh and blood.

The crematorium is a block away. Of course the cemetery is close by the hospital in their small town. Close to their sad little motel where people come and go, crying in despair or in joy, leaving indelible stains of liquor on carpet and imprinted feelings on blankets.

Issei nods at the woman behind the desk, different from the one he met when he booked a room. She nods back with a tilt, before her eyes go back to looking at nothingness. She looks even more unfazed by life and uninterested by its inhabitants that roam by her. He has the sneaky feeling she isn't exactly seeping tea from her thermos.

His phone buzzes in his pants pocket. The duo advances slightly faster as they finally cross the empty, carpeted land of the lobby and reach the door. One push later, the doors slowly open to let cold air in and a burdened teen and his sick mother out.

He glances downward. A spot of white skin is visible from his standpoint. Her collar is too wide. The son fixes her mussed scarf. In her red gear, she looks pale as snow. A snowdrop in a field of blood.

Issei knows he can leave his mother at the family's diner that's a block away from this gloomy place in the opposite direction. He could explain to the staff of the dinner that he has had an urgent call; his grandmother had a bad fall, could they please watch over his recuperating mother while he runs to save his grandmother. He could put her in front of a nice tea and go alone.

He does not.

So now they are walking toward a bus stop by the side of crematorium, half a ton of blankets enveloping his mother in a cocoon and still, he feels she must be cold. His hands are burning against the metal handles of her seat. His thighs are attacked by the wind, stiff and enveloped in biting ants. Without his trusty put atop his ears, they're also suffering. He fights the urge to cover them with his stiff fingers. The winter wind is humid and piercing and he should, he should have planed something else damnit-

His grandmother's little Toyota, a dingy old car his grandpa bought for nothing after their last car died in their backyard, is in the parking lot.

He parks his mother inside the bust stop. "I will get her. Stay here, okay."

"Un-huh."

He dearly hopes that means 'yes' in his mother's language. It used to. He hopes the fragments she coddles in her mind whisper an answer relatively unchanged. He fancies a heart attack as much as any other teens of his generation, but he would like it after they're somewhere relatively safe.

He eyes her. She answers his roamings with a steady gaze. He fights the urge to adjust her tuque again. He follows the slope of her neck when her own gaze wanders towards outside. The crematorium is less sinister than what his nightmares made it look like. Its exterior is neat. There are no giant webs or cracks that leak blood and guts. No ghosts moan along the wind. No tearful families haunt its entrance.

It's unsettling all the same. Issei turns his head away from the cracked plastic glass of their shelter. He huddles against his mother's side, the metal of her wheelchair digging into the bone of his tight. It's a feeble attempt to keep her warm and nothing else.

With a final glance at the dingy car he knows far too well and the building he never wished to know, he turns his mother around so she doesn't face the sinister monster of his nightmare.

He takes a shard of the mirror from their room out of his coat's pocket. Taking it out of the frame was easy. A few pushes and pulls around it, plus a pen stuck in the crack did the trick. He now has a spy glass and a way to make sure everything is alright.

He squints at the shard. He angles his right hand awkwardly to the side, against his left hip. This way, she should not see his actions too much nor understand what he is doing. Knowing her, she might get offended. She was so precious about her being able to do her normal tasks around the house at the beginning.

His mother hasn't moved. Yet. (Where would she go? Would she be able to push her wheelchair anywhere? Why would she leave? He is ridiculous.)

Issei twitches his mirror around to see her surroundings. It's not her he shouldn't trust. It's the rest of the world.

One of his feet, he doesn't know which in his state of concentration, hits a solid obstacle. He trips on air. A solid step forward allows his face to not meet concrete.

The teen clenches his jaw. The shard's jagged side ripped the skin of his thumb open.

"Issei."

Watered eyes are quickly blinked into a drier state as the grandson looks up. His grandma stands at the top of the three steps that leads to the crematorium main door, one gloved hand grasping the handrail. Her other hand covers her heart.

He glances one last time at his spy mirror. No movements from his mother. She is more patient than he is. He let his hand swing back to its rightful position. He stuffs his shard in his pocket.

"Grandma," he greets flatly.

She runs down the stairs.

"Oh, my boy." She hugs him. "I thought the worst had happened to you. Why didn't you ask for help?" She caresses his face, his hair with a gloved hand while the other retains him in her grasp and a need for it to be real.

He stays silent, even though he burns to know if she contacted anybody about his presence here. She better has not. "I had stuff going on."

No visual on his mother. That's bad. What if she has a relapse? What if someone approached her? He would have to be in people's face if it happens. He doesn't want to shock her with a violent scene. He tries to turn his head.

His grandmother holds his chin in place. Her eyes are exploring every nook and cranny of his face. "Where were you?"

"Places." He answers. That's not a lie. His mind zooms on where he left his mother and how worse it could get if they don't get to her soon. Kuoh is not known for its violent crimes, but he is sure rascals spend winter days roaming aimlessly around the crematorium, praying on sick mother and sad families.

"Issei." His grandmother tugs his collar. Her eyes are watering.

"Grandma." Issei holds her hands, covering her small knuckles and trembles with his own. He hopes his hands are steadier than his voice. He searches for words that will not shock her more than his simple presence already did. "Did you tell your son I was coming here?"

 _Oh wow, good job Issei. Much tact. Such gentleness. So good. You will get the award for best grandson of the year if you continue._

She shakes her head. "No. You told me not to."

Excellent. He squeezes her hands and that's supposed to be a reassuring gesture and not threatening, right? "Thanks."

She squeezes his fingers tenderly. She smiles and she is ready to say something beautiful when she notices his thumb is ripped open and putting stains on her. "You're bleeding."

He shifts. His thumb tries to escape her hold. It's putting blood on her beautiful leather glove. "It's nothing."

Her furrowed eyes and frowning lips are ready to berate him, because she can't be a good grandmother if she doesn't remind him he can't do anything right. Her eyes take a second to follow his shifting form and it is all it takes.

Her eyes widen and Issei's mind blares curses. "Hikari?"

The part that feels completely detached from the situation as he grasps his grandmother's elbows and holds her close because her knees are playing a wild maracas song giggles. At least he won't have to explain in a convoluted way that he kidnapped his own mother from the hospital and that his grandmother was going to attend another person's funeral. She saw for herself already.

He drags his grandmother to the bus station. His mother waves sedately. "Hello, mother-in-law."

"Ah." That's the only sound his grandmother produces. Her gloved hands grip Issei's arm for support. Her nails dig in.

He grasps her other elbow before her knees fail her completely. She leans against him, her hands pressed against chest. He smells her shampoo and pictures the incense she uses for his grandfather's altar. "Grandma, listen to me. There's a family dinner a block away from here. We are going to walk there and eat some food. Maybe drink some good tea too. When we're done, we will talk."

He put one of her hands on the handle of his mother's wheelchair and pushes. They hobble their way to the diner. Silently. Issei has no idea what to say to lighten the atmosphere. Can he even lighten it up?

Issei concentrates on the cracks of cement of the sidewalk, walking at a moderate pace for his mother as much as his grandmother. A part of his brain is already calculating how much he can spend to not go broke, in case his grandmother does not stand by her family.

They are sitting in a booth farther from the center of the restaurant a minute or ten later. His thighs burn less now that he is sitting on a warm bench. The staff's nothing but accommodating with his mother's physical state. Swift and to the point. They helped her into the bench. She sits leisurely between him and the wall. His grandmother is facing them. There are cups of tea and a teapot between them before they have the time to raise their hands and say 'Please…'.

He is tying a napkin around his bleeding thumb when a waitress helpfully brings him a band aid and ties it for him around his ripped wound. It stops bleeding everywhere. He offers his best smile and a bow. It probably looked like a grimace, but the intent behind it was good.

Japanese service sure is the best.

His grandmother cradles her too warm porcelain cup. Issei knows it's too warm because, in a moment of nervous, he tried to sip a lick of tea. It burned the tip of his tongue and the part of his palate that's just behind his front teeth horribly.

Mrs. Hyoudou senior puts her cup down decisively. "The hospital called. I was going to your funerals, Hikari."

Hikari waves the attention towards her son with a dainty movement of her hand. "Issei can fill you in the blanks."

He is grateful she hasn't outright admitted she knows nothing. He moistens his chapped lips. "I took mom from the hospital yesterday's night," he starts.

"Why?"

Issei opens his mouth. He clamps it shut. What was the reason behind his rush? He wanted to see his mother safe and sound? He wanted to alleviate the pain? He wanted to see her? He wanted. He wanted, so he acted.

"They were going to unplug me. My husband came to sign the papers. My case was… taking space and helping nobody, as they put it." Issei clings to his cup. He gulps back the bile and the hate. His thumb bleeds anew. "I heard them talk in my sleep," his mother finishes flatly. Her hand reaches for his wounded hand and flattens it against the varnished wood of the table, holding it down firmly.

"I didn't exactly have the right to spirit her away," Issei continues softly. He stares at his mother's hand, soft and small, over his own, rough and big.

He hears his grandmother sigh deeply. "Who are they burning?"

"Somebody else." Or nothing. Nothing sounds better than a nameless corpse put in his mother's vault. Nothing will not bring them bad luck or ghosts who claim to be his ancestors and need him to fulfill an ancient prophecy to save the world and cleanse their resting place from the filthy thing that will be placed there in a few hours.

Has life ever been so kind?

Ah. Ah. Ah.

"We should go to the hospital and demand answers. They can't do this." The end of her braid goes up and down with each of her huff. "Your mother needs to be treated," she rumbles.

That's his grandmother alright. A spitfire ready to get what she wants the way she wants it.

"No," Hikari interjects. "I'm fine now."

His grandma snaps her neck towards her daughter-in-law. Her anger is going to make her act and talk out of control in the diner, Issei knows. "What do you mean, you're alright? You were in coma two days ago."

Issei remembers his dreams. He remembers how Dream-Grandma was sweet and sour and would put offering in the mountains for Youkais. He could start with that. Youkais. It will tie to the rest of the world they will have to discover together. "Grandma, do you still believe in Youkais?"

Silence. His mother's hand retreats from its spot on his hand.

His grandmother reaches for the end of her braid and tug, once. She bends forwards. "Have you made a pact with one?"

"We have a lot to discuss," Issei lamely opts for. He will have to describe a whole new world. One that is dangerous beyond imagination, one he chose and can't quite leave now. She's so going to make him sleep on a rotten mat once she knows.

His grandmother wrinkles her nose. She doesn't push. She shifts focus. "It doesn't give them the right to place a nameless corpse in your mother's vault. Do we even if it is a person? It could dirty the tomb and disturb the resting of your ancestors."

Are his ancestors really going to come for him for reparation or something if they let it happen? Why can't even the dead stay where they are, minding their own damn business now?

His grandmother's frown looks too deep, twists her wrinkles too much for it to not be a real problem.

Damn it.

"Can we ask for the ashes?" he finds himself asking.

"I'm going to," his elder smiles the smile that spells 'people are going to die magnificently'. He mentally lights a candle for them. They shouldn't have been on her path.

His mother shifts on their cushioned bench. "It's probably a nameless corpse they took in the morgue." Her gaze flickers from her tea cup to them. "Everybody needs a resting place," she lets escape.

He sees his grandmother's hackles raising. He sees his mother's brows furrowing. "We could offer it a resting place in the mountains," he quickly adds.

"Not near the house," his grandmother immediately vetoes.

Issei glances at her linked hands that nurse her empty cup, then to her thin lips, pressed together. She didn't say no all together. He feels the smile coming on his face. "We just have to… purify a spot, right? I know you can do that."

"Very well," his grandmother relents after she gives him one last uncomfortable stare.

From the corner of his eyes, Issei sees a waitress hovering nearby, spying to see if they need her to order. Issei smiles at her. "Are you ready to order? My treat."

His grandmother clicks her tongue. "What are you saying? I'm the one who's treating you two."

"Grandma, I can-" the teen starts.

"Don't argue with your elder." She snaps back. She grabs his hand and squeezes it tight. "You went through enough already," she says softly, emotionally, and when was the last time he saw her so sad for so long?

"Thank you, Chiasa," Hikari whispers.

His mother glances at him with an arched eyebrow.

Issei sighs and bows. "Thank you, grandma."

One beef curry and some lame jokes later, Issei is relaxing against the board of their booth. His stomach doesn't hurt as much as before, it doesn't grind and grumble in a desperate call for food he likes to ignore. It's an annoyance he doesn't have to deal with for now.

His mother and grandmother have acted amiably with each other.

He has never dreamt he would get so much in one day.

His grandmother pays with a swipe of her debit card. She puts her gloves and scarf back on, hiding her wrinkled skin and braid from view effortlessly. "Stay here. I'm going to get the car."

Issei stands, unsure of the next course of actions. Is she going to come back for real or is she leaving?

"Stay with your mother, Issei. I know my way around Kuoh," she commands with a huff.

He watches his grandmother trots to the entrance. He follows her swaging silhouette until she turns a corner, the corner from where he could observe her get her car if he were to leave the restaurant. Just one minute…

"Ise," his mother calls. "You didn't finish your rice."

The son surveys his bowl. He did leave a little bit of rice. When was the last time he had so much food in his bowl? It feels like years ago. Another world. A world that's crumbling away, even in his memories.

She nudges his spoon towards him. "Don't be ungrateful for the food. Eat it."

Issei picks his chopsticks and eats the last grains of rice.

The door of the restaurant is open wide and a little lady with a many years stored in her white braid trots back inside.

The rest is a blur. They leave the restaurant quickly to get inside the car. Issei pushes his mother to the warm, old banger that still smells like his grandpa. He helps get inside safely. He packs the wheelchair in the truck. They drive back to the crematorium. They leave Hikari inside the car, saying they will be quick. Hopefully.

Then grandson and grandmother are inside the sinister building, talking with a secretary.

"We are the family of Hyoudou Hikari," the senior of the duo starts.

"You were late for the cremation. We had to do it without you. We are on a tight schedule," the secretary informs them grimly. She offers quiet condolences with a bow of her head.

Issei sneers amiably. _As if you would have let us see the corpse one last time before the cremation._

"May we see the urn?" his grandmother asks. There's a quiver in her throat that could pass as contained sadness, but Issei knows she is just raging inside.

"Of course." The secretary nods and pushes a button. A man appears from an office a second later. He bows and greets them solemnly. He leads them down a gloomy hallway. On a quaint little table, a box covered in white fabric stands alone.

Issei walks to the table. The box is his nightmares taken on a solid form. The thought that his mother is waiting for them in the car stabilizes him. He only feels disgusted by the masquerade they're part of. It's all so fake.

The man bends a little to be at Issei's level. "Would you like to hold until we put it in the vault?"

"No. You're not burying it anymore. We're taking…" Issei's gaze flickers to the urn and he wants to curse. _I hope it's not a real 'them'. For fuck' sake,_ "them with us."

The worker nods compassionately. "I'm sorry, young man. You have to be strong. Your mother is at peace now."

"No, what my grandson said is true. We're taking the ashes."

The man blinks. His frown turns less amiable when he turns to face the older woman. "You paid us to open the vault and put your daughter-in-law to rest. Everything is in place. We simply need to put her to rest with her family now."

Chiasa shakes her head. She bats the air and probably dreams of doing the same to his face. "We changed our mind. No need to open the tomb."

"Listen here; you can't change your mind about that."

His grandmother's smile is fixed and fuck, he is happy he isn't the one facing her. "You can keep your money. We simply want my daughter-in-law's ashes," she is enunciating each syllable clearly, as if she was talking with a child. Or an very slow person in need of new hearing aids.

"It doesn't work this way. We have to answer to our boss-"

Issei reaches for the urn and takes it from the table.

The worker's baffled look as he tries to grasp thin air is ridiculous.

 _Should've hold onto it harder, old man._ "Have a good day." The teen bows, urn secured in his arms. A second later, he is scrambling away.

He is out before the man has the time to say anything useless again. His grandmother, from the sound her soft boots make, is hot on his heels.

His grandmother and he are running away from a crematorium after stealing ashes.

Issei snorts at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. He uses the car as a support as a waterfall of chuckles escapes his mouth,

His grandmother massages her waist as she arrives to the car. She sends him an unamused gaze through squinted eyes, all of it coupled with twisted thin lips. She looks the picture perfect of an adult completely overdone with a child's antics. She keeps it together for two seconds before his hilarity takes hold of her amber eyes.

"Really… you." She succeeds to mutter before it becomes too much and she hides her laugh behind her dainty hand.

His mother rolls her window down. "What is so funny?" She asks, gaze swinging from her giggling son to her laughing mother-in-law.

Issei adjusts his grip on the urn and no, he isn't puffing his chest out proudly. "I stole the ashes."

His mother blinks. "You… stole them?"

"Yeah. He was saying a lot of useless things so I made a run for it after taking the ashes from an old man's hands. The poor dude looked baffled. You know, like an owl. Big eyes, mouth wide open. A fly could've gone in there and he would have gulped the damn thing-"

"Language, Issei." Hikari and his grandmother cut in at the same time.

Issei wrinkles his nose. He does the adult thing and sticks his tongue out.

"Hey, you! Stop!"

Chiasa and Issei looks at the sagging man running towards their car. They exchange a glance. A Machiavellian plan takes root in this moment of complicity. The grandmother hops into her seat. The grandson closes his mother's door and skips around the car to the passenger's seat.

Issei straps the urn to the passenger's seat with a smile. "You're not going to fall anywhere, don't you worry."

His grandmother glances at the grey urn before she starts the engine. It rattles to life.

Issei opens the door next to his mother and clambers into the small car.

They leave the parking lot with a few coughs of the old motor. They bypass a yelling man throwing curses at their dingy car, form sagging and panting as he abandons his slow pursuit. By then, a giggle starts to ignite the atmosphere. The giggle becomes a soft laugh. The soft laugh becomes a roaring applause.

They are all puffing and giggling, bent against each other in a heap of happy, overgrown puppies. His grandmother discreetly wipes her cheeks. Issei turns his head and acts like he didn't notice.

"I missed you two," his grandmother confesses after the last giggle has died in her eyes.

"I missed you too." He missed the laugh. He missed his mother's warmth. He missed his grandmother's croaky voice.

They pass through the busy street where he used to work. The sweetshop is still standing, even though he has cursed his owner a few times. He sends another curse with a glare for good measure. They pass the Takoyaki stand and it's still as busy as ever, even though the cold burns in way sake does not. This time, Issei joins his hands and sends a blessing.

They are at the outskirt of the town where he spent all of his life in no time. "Will we ever come back?"

"I don't know."

Kuoh is behind them.

The future has sharp claws and plenty of nightmares to offer.

Issei flexes his fingers. In one hand, a bow and a path full of violence. In another, a dragon and a past full of grievances.

His mother hums. She closes her eyes.

Issei observes the disappearing city of his childhood a long time after they've passed the suburbs of the suburbs and his mother has fallen asleep.

Her head jolts with her neck feeble effort to keep everything straight. He reaches for her nape with his hand and brings her closer. Her head is at last secured on his bony shoulder. He breathes in her pale skin, blues cracks running along her skull. The top of her head smells like caramel and it's almost too sweet to be real. It smells like innocence.

Peach fuzz tickles his chin. He tries to adjust his angle; shifting around one muscle at the time so his pointy chin is not digging in her soft skin. They all are angles, the both of them. A thing they share, mother and son.

They will do just fine. They can do this. Living's not so difficult when he's got somebody to watch his back. Someone who can anchor him to the real world. And his mother is going to live a very long and fulfilling life. If anyone dares to try and take her away from him, Issei knows he will punch some warm bodies into a colder state.

If it is Hades who tries anything funny, Issei might just punch the god too. The beauty of the gesture would be grandiose.

He blinks and pauses his glorious fantasy. Hades' ugly mug scrunches up and disappears into an imaginary drawer.

Is a punch worth eternal damnation?

If Hades finds himself bedridden for the next millennia, it very well could be. If it protects his mother from any harm, it is.

Sharp brown eyes catch his mind out of his fantasy on the rear mirror. His grandmother blinks and her gaze goes back to the sinuous road to her mountainous dwelling. Issei observes her braided silver mane. A few strands escaped from the tight braid, thanks to their little run. They curl on her forehead and her nape.

He would like to have hair that white one day.

His grandmother turns on the radio and drowns his thoughts in an ocean of soft music.

* * *

18/06/2019


	13. A Theft of Life

The motor thrums hard as it clambers up gentle slopes. Trees are closing in around the road. The horizon is drowned in a sea of green and brown. Leaves flutter in the wind and the forest whispers. Light and dark rumors go from one tree to another with cracks and rustles. Red climbs the temperature gauge of the motor as the car slows down agonizingly on a path that never stops going up. Feet would advance faster here.

Issei turns his head and avoids staring outside. The glimpses he unwillingly catches raise the thin hair on his arms into rigid soldiers.

The motor coughs. They all jump with him, accompanying its jolts. Chiasa pats the wheel tenderly, whispering encouragement. The beast under them listens and continues to function through sheer will. Issei closes his eyes.

 _It's alive._

His eyes twitch. He rubs his eyelids. The relative bloody darkness the thin skin protecting his eyes provides does not help his rising anxiety. The forest is still there, outside the car, unmoving and unmoved. Bile rises and burns his throat with acid.

His hand gropes for the lock of his door, making sure it is tight and nothing can move it, nothing can enter the metal cage he chose as his refuge. It doesn't calm him. Things unknown can overthrow all logic, can overwhelm his logic and make him open the door to face his death. A thrum goes through his arm, all comfort and images of dead enemies. If they dare, they will die, the bow seems to growl. Issei is neither comforted nor amused. Damn, his bow is bloodthirsty now. Yay.

He lets go of the lock.

The car stops with a dying roar. Issei opens his eyes. His mother is glued to her window, silently staring at the house she used to visit every year on the fourth of January during her marriage, like a clock. Her hand plays with the lock, pushing it and pulling it, keeping them caged inside the car.

"We're there." His grandmother turns and a few more locks escape her braid.

 _No 'We're home.',_ Issei thinks somberly. It's not home anyway. He reaches for his mother's hand and grabs it with all the tenderness he can muster. He takes her fragile limb away from the lock. They exchange a glance. She ducks and avoids his gaze, abashed. He squeezes her hand; he has no right to judge, he was doing the same a mere minute ago.

He unlocks the door.

The teen turns. His back pops with the twist. He unlocks his own door and gives the example, even though his mind is ranting about the forest, the forest, and his hands are shacking. He has to give the good example. There are only a few meters between the car and the house. They will be inside in no time.

He can do this.

He pushes his door open as his grandmother does hers.

The crisp cold engulfs him.

He stands. The trees around the property, haphazardly left to their own device and survival, bend in alert. The wind whispers tales to their quivering thin branches and evergreen pine needles. The clouds gather over the hill, bringing electricity and their tears.

"Issei. Come help."

The teen jolts to action.

Issei walks towards his family, banishing memories to a dark corner of his mind. They wait there, waiting to pounce on his tired self once he is alone once again. His grandmother is waiting, frowning towards is inaction.

He offers her a weak smile. She doesn't buy it, taping her foot rapidly against the ground, her hands on her hips.

The son offers another smile with more teeth and less anxiety to his mother when he arrives at her side. His grandmother has already taken her wheelchair out. He grabs the paper-like woman by her midriff and delicately, as delicately as his non-existent or aching muscles permit, deposit her on her wheelchair. A lightning of pain goes through his back. He bites back a whimper and smiles and he is getting real good at masking pain isn't he?

Hikari shifts on it. After a few seconds, she stops squirming and nods, at ease.

Issei tucks the Glorygold blankie, as he named it in his mind, around her. It will keep her warm for the few seconds they have to spend outside. And inside too, considering the quality of the insulation. Every year, like a broken recorder, his mother's soon-to-be ex-husband would go on a rant about the poor quality of the fiberglass put in the walls. He always bravely said he would one day work on them and replace everything so his parents would have a cozy interior.

Issei is going to do what that man swore to do but never delivered. It's been far too long since anybody followed through his or her words in this family. The conviction is so strong; the promise so fierce, Issei slams the door of the old car close a bit too hard. It screams in protest and his grandmother sends him one of her patented glares.

"I could walk," his mother whispers when he huffs and puffs against a crack between rocks that does not want to give way to her wheelchair.

Issei changes his approach. He stops bending against her wheelchair in a hopeless attempt to run over the damn crack gently. He grasps the cheap metallic seat with cheaper wheels and carries it over the crack with a huff that's a bit too loud. His mother will think he is tired or worse, weak. He is not weak, damnit. He has some muscles. Somewhere. "In the house, maybe."

 _No_ , his mind corrects. _You're not walking anywhere in this house._

Thankfully, a ramp was installed when his grandpa was still alive and kicking his ass at go, even though his hips were failing him terribly. He pushes his mother up the ramp slowly, minding the cracks in the old cement. His grandmother turns the doorknob and they are inside.

Issei pushes the wheelchair on creaking wooden floor till they have arrived in the kitchen. That's the place where they used to eat and talk, back then. Warmest place in the house too, when the oven is working and his grandmother is making special editions dishes he couldn't quite find the taste of anywhere else. Eating her homemade food was the joy of his yearly visits, when he was a kid. He used to beg his parents so they would go to his grandparents' house more often. They always had excuses and reasons to not go.

It's curious, now that he thinks about. A shiver brings back the memory of his mother whispering his grandmother had lived through worse than a resurrected daughter-in-law and a heart attack.

He parks his mother by the table. "Do you want to drink something?"

She shakes her head. "No. I'm good," she answers absently, focused on wiggling her arms out of her cocoon of blankets.

"Nonsense." His grandmother bustles into the kitchen, winter clothes abandoned somewhere for a homely man sweater. She puts slippers under Issei's nose. He grabs them before she lets them fall on his mother's head. "It's so cold outside. I'll brew us some tea."

Issei wanders towards the entrance, set on discarding his shoes and putting on slippers when he remembers something they all forgot. "I'm going to get the urn," he calls. His hand is on the doorknob and he hates the outside, he hates the trees and the wind and the clouds, but the urn cannot be left alone. It would be disrespectful. It wouldn't be good for the ashes.

His grandmother's head appears in the rectangular of the door leading to the kitchen. "No need. Leave it in the car." She notices her grandson's hesitation on the doorstep. She waves her hand with a point of exasperation where a drop of regret and fear stagnates. "We will take care of it later."

Issei shivers, inexplicably. In the end, he gives in. He knows the forest is looming over the house long after he closed and locked the front door and went back to his mother's side.

 _The forest is alive._

They have a quick snack. Issei chews on an old raisin cookie. It tastes like dust and dreams of chocolate. When was the last time he had chocolate? Ah, the sweetshop. Issei wisely muses dried raisins tastes better than chocolate, after all. At least, they aren't sold by stinky middle-aged men who prey on the vulnerable and the weak. Who cares about the lost crunchiness and unmeltiness of dried fruits, in front of such knowledge?

His name is quickly added to the list of people who will get their face slapped next time Issei sees them. His ugly mug might benefit from the care.

He throws his head back and observes the ceiling. The house is as he remembers it. Old and full of wooden lathes creaking stories out when his steps are too heavy.

"Issei, could you dry the dishes?" his grandmother asks with the tone of someone who is not asking.

(His mother, bless her soul, decided to retreat to her room for a nap. He tucked her into the guest room's bed he used when he was a child himself. The single bed was as comfy and body sucking as ever. He will be able to exchange bullets with dear grandma in peace.)

He sighs and gets up. He accepts the rag cloth and there he goes, drying dishes like a pro. A pro that hasn't cleaned or dried dishes in weeks, that is. He almost lets go of one bowl when he tries to get over the deed too fast. He glances towards his partner-in-dishes and oh, she is watching him. He offers a grimace and caresses bubbles on polished porcelain with a lover's warmth. His ears wouldn't have stopped ringing till the next century if he had actually broken that one bowl.

His grandmother, by the way, is doing an atrocious job at spying on him and doing the dishes simultaneously. She wouldn't make a good spy at all. Instead of just glancing at him from the corner of her eye, she turns her head every time she ogles him. Her eyes fix him too long. The whole stance is awkward and oh so painful to watch for its obviousness.

Issei fights the urge to stare at her square in the eyes the next time she squints at him.

Issei wonders if he has to start some useless small talk so she can open up about what's bothering her. _How have you been? Did you continue the family tradition of eating one's nails till you have no fingers because why not and anxiety? How do you feel about having a murderer in your house? How do you feel about your dear and only grandson having a mental breakdown in your kitchen because your house is surrounded by trees and he forgot for a few days that your house's in the mountains and the fact that greeneries freaking hate him on a metaphysical level? Oh my gosh, I'm an idiot._

"You will have to forgive your father, one day."

 _...ah?_

Issei blinks. He comes back to the present and faces her serious, I'm-actually-serious-about-this-frown. He throws the dish cloth and goes for the door. Oh no, not that shit about forgiveness and whatnot. What his biological fucktard of a fake f-word did is unforgivable.

"Issei, you are not done."

His grandmother adds a spoon on the stack of precarious bowls she has made. She has the guts to push the bowls a little to make space for the teapot. He can see everything falling on the floor in two seconds and her precious china cups broken in a thousand pieces. The noise is going to wake his mother up.

He rushes back to the counter and stabilizes the tower.

Bowls click under his hands but they do not fall. He exhales a sigh of relief.

Chiasa slides a spoon between his arms.

"Your grandfather loved women, Issei."

The teen blinks. Hmm, okay? Yes, he was straight. Otherwise, he wouldn't have had the generation between him and Issei with his wife. Or married his quick-tempered grandmother.

Quick-tempered grandmother slides another spoon between his thumb and the bowls. Nice. He is now a glorified spoon holder. How validating.

"His family, especially his parents -your great-grandparents- thought he was marrying under his station. They believed I wanted to snatch a wealthy marriage for my family's sake." She passes him another cup and Issei accepts it mechanically. The spoon clatters against the bowls as it falls, forgotten. His thoughts are on his grandfather's beaming face every time he would tease his wife into releasing a smile.

"They said everything they could to break us apart. They insulted my family in ways so abject-" she stops, voice hitching. Bubbles cover her hands but she doesn't notice, gaze and frown lost in the past.

Issei follows her gaze. She isn't one to use words like 'abject'. No… he doesn't know the woman who speaks of a past he has never heard of. He catches glimpses of green through the window. A fury form, tiny and agile, flies from one branch to another. A small tail bristles and dots as dark as ink for his grandfather's calligraphy stare at his soul. He ducks his head back to his work. There's no need to focus and Issei wonders, he wonders how his great-grandparents had the guts to insult his grandmother. She's a spitfire given form.

Perhaps she was different back then. Like he has changed, she changed too. He lets her story engulfs him, he lets his imagination pictures how they insulter her family.

"They threatened to disown him." His weary grandmother continues, her gaze lost in the evergreen that ancestors lovingly and tyrannically grew. She closes her eyes, hands floating in lukewarm water.

The boy stays mute; worried by images and colors he cannot chase nor name. He tries to concentrate on his grandmother's words, but she offers no more he can focus on or imagine as he dries cups that are drier than a desert with a wet rag he could have called the Nile. Issei, left with no job, take her right hand out of the water and dries it with a corner of his dish towel that's not as humid as the rest.

She grabs his hand through the cloth. "They weren't all bark and no bite, Issei. They did disown him when he came to their ancestral home and proclaimed us fiancés." A curt laugh, something coarse and pained shakes her chest. "Your grandfather stayed strong."

"Two weeks before our wedding, they asked him to come home. They wanted to reconcile with him, they said." She chuckles. Issei stays silent in front of her frowning brow and twisted lips, silent in front of her trembling jaw and painful memories. He knows, his guts know the next part is not going to be something he wants to know or hear. "Part of their reconciliation was to lock him in a room with his childhood sweetheart for a whole night."

Issei opens his mouth. Some kind of uncontrolled hiss, an unwilling breath that hitches and hurts his ears leaves his slack lips. What?

"As you can imagine, he slept with her."

The pure image of the laughing grandfather who beat his ass at any board game… crumbles.

"After all the pain, all the misery, he let me down." She plays with water, drawing figures in the bubbles. "He had sworn on his honor, on all that his heart trusted; he broke faith. I went to see my relatives, here," she points the outside with her chin, a little adorable jut he knows too well and Issei doesn't know what to say, "in this forgotten little town in the mountains. I wanted to hide and let time balm my wounds. For a woman of my station, what I did was terribly stupid. In those times, people thought differently. A rich man could get what he wanted, as long as it was reasonable, and a few mistresses on the side was reasonable. It wasn't so for me."

She clenches her jaw. Issei shifts in the beginning of a one harmed hug, something, anything. She shakes her head and leaves the sink for her chair. She sits down with a sigh. "But enough about my feelings. He followed me. I was so angry; my hands were sore from all the slaps I gave him and yet, I couldn't stop myself. I acted mad. When I made my decision on our marriage clear, he didn't object."

Issei trails after her and sits down next to her, hands flat on the table. He has forgotten the looming forest. What did his grandfather do? Obviously, his grandparents married.

Chiasa waits, a strange quirk to her lips. It could have been mistaken for a smile if Issei hadn't known her for all of his life. "Instead, your grandfather did what he did best; being ridiculous beyond measures. He bought a tiny shop and worked there everyday. It was a menial job, a thankless job. He worked there hard, silently. He did not speak to me, that wretch. However, small gifts and offerings would magically appear on my footsteps all too often. Little trinkets I had liked, fruits we had made jokes about, clothes I had wanted to buy for our house…" her voice disappears in a whisper.

Memories stand between the teen and the old woman. They're heavy with emotions, heavy with half-imagined moments for the grandson and too vibrant images for the grandmother.

The old woman snorts. "Your grandfather was a sneaky man. Finally, I couldn't control myself and asked him why he left gifts on our threshold every night when he very well knew I didn't touch them and children would steal them."

Chiasa stares at her wedding band. "He answered; I don't see what you're talking about. I'm leaving offerings for the goddess of the mountain."

Issei frowns. _What the heck, grandpa? Is that the thing one is supposed to say when they admit they were at fault? Is it even an excuse?_

His grandmother thought it was. "I laughed so hard at him; I think he was actually offended." Her lips are quirked upwards and perhaps a part of her still laughs at her husband ridiculous ways. Issei thinks she does laugh, inside. Then the internal happiness disappears, replaced by something far more serious. "I didn't ask him to promise me anything when I accepted his second proposal. He knew what I wanted and I knew what he wanted. It didn't go too bad, so I think we weren't… completely stupid."

This time, Issei puts his hand on his grandmother's. The timing feels right. Her shining eyes tell him his guts weren't lying.

There were many things he didn't know. His grandmother probably did not say a lot of what happened between that stupid comment from his stupid grandfather and their wedding. Perhaps he failed her again in different ways afterwards too. Perhaps they lived in marital bliss till his death. Perhaps Issei should stop wondering about things he cannot change, for once.

She clears her throat. "What you decided about my son, I understand. He broke everything good that was between you. It is only right you do not want to see him again."

Issei cannot muster the strength to act acidic. He sees the emotional ploy, where this might lead now. _Wonderfully orchestrated, grandma._ "Why did you tell me this story, then?"

"Forgiving is not forgetting, Issei. It doesn't come easily and it doesn't make sense, sometimes. You're…"

"Are you going to tell me I'm too young to understand?" This time, his tone is venomous. It sounds so petty and teenagey Issei bites his bottom lip. Damn it, he is acting like a freaking brat again.

She laughs and it's fond and it reminds him of the bitter tea they would drink during cold winter days. "You have my temper. You have your grandfather's perseverance." She reaches for his face and caresses the bumpy skin left by his gone acne as if it was silk. Or a beloved face.

The corners of her eyes drop and suddenly, Issei remembers his eyes were always compared to his grandfather. Something about the shape and the color being uncanny resembling. He sports his now dead grandfather's eyes.

Whose face is his grandmother caressing, exactly?

The thought is so unbearable cold Issei reaches for her hand and hides his hideousness behind a kiss bestowed in the palm of her hand.

His grandmother, who has always loved to pinch his cheeks, to take him on long walks and take him on her lap when he was a bubbling toddler… he shouldn't be so terrible with her. Not when all the photos they have together, they look like sprawled puppies, limbs entangled in some ways and soul singing a tender song.

Happy puppies.

She lets go of his face with a sigh.

"You cannot reject your family. More than blood, it is all that has happened between my son and you that links you together. As much as you would like to believe that things and people do not affect you if you do not let them affect you, they do. Events and people who are long gone still leave a mark, Issei. Do you know why I believe in Youkai?"

Issei tenses. A shiver goes through the lines of his right arm and the bow feels as interested as he is. _Prey. Hunters._

"My great-grandmother, when I was a toddler, used to take me on long walks. I can't remember all the details… but I remember the stream we would hop over, the flowers she would make trinkets off… She told me things." The emphasis on _things_ has Issei's imagination going wild.

"What kind of things?" he is all but leaning in her face, breath bated and mind soaring. A lead, a lead, a lead! More than books, more than vague knowledge, something that belongs to him, to his family!

"The power of certain plants. The way the Moon and the Sun affects the health and moods of plants and people. Which gods should always be respected and which was to woo for a certain demand. Things. I wrote them down when I started to realize my memory would not remember them all with age."

"How did she know all of that?" the excited teen whispers loudly. He leans closer.

"She told me we have Youkai blood."

"What kind of Youkai?" he asks before he can think about all the consequences of this, all the ties and the complications. His mind only formulate one question and one answer: Power? Power.

"I don't know." His grandmother hesitates. A dark cloud covers her sharp features. "My great-grandmother had what people, back then, used to call the forgetfulness of old age. Now, we call it dementia."

Issei blinks. The silence is stretching and she stays silent. Her face stones up, all cracking wrinkles and thin lips.

"You believed her," he ventures.

"Her knowledge of plants never let me down." It sounds like an excuse. She links her hands together and glares at them.

In a flash, Issei guesses that maybe, she talked about their ancestry with others and at best, they teased her like there was no tomorrow, at worst, they called an asylum to ask if any room was vacant for a delusional, superstitious woman.

"Did she gave hints? Anything that would tell what our ancestor was?"

Chiasa stares at him. The corners of her eyes smile a smile so soft, it doesn't look it belongs on his grandmother's face. It's out of character and so… so grateful. Issei stares at his own hands.

"She never said anything openly. However, she would often hold me on her knees and recount the story of female Youkai who fell in love with a human and abandoned her duty for him."

"What duty?" Issei doesn't care for the whole love story, he just wants to know what's important. Good, merciful Phoenix, don't tell him what he's thinking is real or true.

"She was the handmaiden of- Oh. She said she was a handmaiden of the lady of fire."

A cord is struck in Issei. In lieu of stopping buzzing and shaking after a few seconds, unlike a piano's cord, his soul shakes the more he thinks about it. The more he thinks about his dreams, he shivers and fears. "Where did she come from? Did she come from Kyoto?"

Kyoto, the ancient capital of his country. Kyoto, the capital of the Youkais. Kyoto, the hub of _Yasaka, the fox lady who can kick ass and seduces souls._

"I... do not remember."

Issei feels his face twist into something ugly.

Chiasa surveys his face worriedly. Wisely, she doesn't ask him what he knows about Youkai or how he came to believe the Supernatural exists. His answer would have been as ugly as his face.

Love… really was the motivator of their family, eh.

As long as he never approaches Kyoto, it should be fine.

If it's not…

It's not. Issei knows it. If his ancestor made her employer unhappy with her abrupt departure (not filling in her two weeks and all- what is he saying? Does Youkai even know what the 2 weeks notice is?), he is shit so deep he could make a house in it. A two stories house, to be cozy. Servitude is a huge deal. So big of a deal Devils basically consider it eternal. Issei doesn't believe the Youkai's concept of it too far off that mark.

Members of the Supernatural haven't stricken him as particularly forgiving or forgetful.

(Unlike him, who is supposed to one day forgive his damn cunt of a sperm donor. Fat luck.)

Yasaka might be unhappy with his existence too. Sins of the elders fall on the youngest shoulders. If she holds a grudge, he is utterly and completely fucked. She is the big boss of Kyoto, the leader, the strongest, the point of power.

He is nothing. He has no title, no power he can control, no allies.

He is going to have to wake up the damn Dragon.

Nice.

Can't the Supernatural leave him alone for 2 seconds?

* * *

He lays down after writing a bit more about his filtered adventures –his mother will never know the full, gory story and they will all be happier for it. His mother needs something else to focus on then the fact that they're staying at her ex-husband's childhood house. His cheating whore of a grandfather's house. No men in his family seem to be any good. He knows he is of the lowest grade; knowing it probably runs in his blood doesn't comfort him.

He closes his bloodshot eyes. He opens them and morning has come. He hasn't felt sleep take him to a sedated state. He hasn't slept.

It doesn't bother him.

(Oh, who is he lying to? Of course it does. His only moments of respite, of silence and brain-deadness have left him now. The dreams left him be for far too long and now he can't even sleep peacefully like he used and wanted to. He can think all day and all night about his oh so wonderful life, his father, his grandfather, their talent to hurt others and what is he doing now, how is he going to survive, how is going to talk with Ddraig or channel his soul and fuck, fuck, fuck.)

The trees grow outside, tilting with the wind, the wind which is pushing them millimeters after millimeters towards the house, towards his room, towards him. Bark creaks, roots shiver, soil and rocks grumble and leaves stretch out, maleficent, twisted bony fingers. The forest is alive and it wants him _dead_.

It knows. It knows his crime, the way he killed and violated peace and purity. His crimes cannot be left unpunished.

Issei knows. He also knows, a knowledge resonating in his bones and heart, that he will not go down without a fight. He cannot, as long as his mother lives and he has something precious to protect and cherish, he cannot let the forest take him to the afterlife and Hades "I'm-the-evil-and-most-powerful-cretin". He will not let anything get between him and his duties as a son. He wasn't the best son before (he remembers distant angry yells and why couldn't he get that and why, why, why was his dad leaving, why was his mother so sick and why did he end up in such a fucked up family?)

They cannot stay here for long. It was a miscalculation on his part to believe his crime would be unknown in the Human territory.

He needs concrete and plastic. The less green, the better.

His right arm throbs accusingly. On instinct, the teen massage his shoulder, going from his collarbone to his elbows with rough spasms. A bow he can barely use will not save his poor ass, he muses. The throbbing gets worse.

He stops massaging with a hiss. _The truth and only the truth, you stupid piece of junk._

He regrets his words as he formulates them. He is the one who's a useless piece of junk for not knowing how to use the bow correctly. The bow is not a fault. His left arm goes back to massaging angry pulses that flow through the white lines of his pact with the weapon attached to his body.

The ray of light that has been travelling on the floor of his bedroom finally hits his makeshift bed.

He shifts and tilts his head. His legs are bent behind him, feet flat against the wall, his right arm stuck between his weight and the ground -because his mattress does not do a fabulous job at separating his body from the cold hard floor- and his neck craned so his gaze can follow the cracks along the veins of the old wood.

In a few minutes, the ray will hit his eyes. Then, he will get up.

For now, he can concentrate on the mess his life is and the veins running along the wood of the ceiling. They're wide strikes of stained wood, appearing and disappearing into other veins.

The thought of the forest outside comes back, solid and terrifying. He will have to go out someday. He will have to go outside and face the outside and the forest.

As long as he is not strong enough, people with a modicum of reputation or greed will try to acquire him. He is a piece of meat below the eyes of a many carnivorous beasts. His wishes are nothing next to their desires.

His status as a Longinus wielder, even an unlocked one, will bring him trouble.

For all, he shall be a simple human with no background and no relations to the Underworld. The title rattles his nerves, taunts the muscles of his right arm in way unknown before. It angers a dark part, the part that can pull the string of a bow and destroy. Human is the name they will call him, but it is not what he is, who he is.

He is a…

Issei blinks. The name eludes him, like the bow eludes him, like the world and its way elude him.

"Big brother."

Fluff covers his eyes. Red fluff. Smooth, red fluff that feels like silk and groomed animal fur.

A tail covers his eyes.

A weight appears on his stomach. Two small hands poke his chest. "Why are you still sleeping? The sun is up and the moon is going down. You should get up."

He lifts the tail. The ray of light hits his eyes.

He sees her all the same.

 _Kusano_

Her blonde hair moves with a nonexistent wind. Her tail sashays lazily behind her, the same way her teasing smile lazily takes over her small features. She pokes him again, harder, over his heart. "Play with me, big brother. You have slept enough. Don't you hear the forest calling us?"

Issei gulps.

"Come. It's calling your name. We shouldn't make them wait," she jumps to her feet. She stands on his stomach, small feet gliding.

Issei blinks and Kusano is holding his hand and they are outside. The pebbles are cold. He looks down. He has no shoes on.

Kusano laughs. She lets of his hand. "Come, come! I'll introduce you to my friends." She pauses mid-twirl to stare at his wreck of a soul. "And Mother's vassals too. You're one of them; you need to know your comrades."

She is bouncing a second later on the rocks that litter their backyard, ancient bones no one dares to move. Their weight and size made them mighty against any intent to separate them from their resting place. Green and brown moss covers them like a blanket does corpses. Withered and sleeping plants surround them, waiting for a faraway spring which will bring them back from the dead.

The tendrils lining his right arm tighten and pulse. The bow murmurs wordlessly in his ears. Going alone… into the woods is insanity.

So Issei does not. He grabs the poor ashes they abandoned in the car and follows Kusano. She grins and laughs, the little ethereal figure. Her legs flicker, one moment transparent and disappearing into damp moss, one moment kicking solid rocks to fly high in the sky, only to bounce back on another rock.

Issei climbs rocks and jumps down on moss, rocking the ashes gently.

"Are you okay?" He finds himself asking. His nose meets warm wood and he breathes against the box, waiting.

Nobody answers.

He shrugs. He is acting silly, isn't he?

(Insane, insane, insane. What is he doing in the forest, what is doing with the ashes, what is he doing?)

Issei lets the unpleasant thoughts wash over him. He peers at the semi-darkness of the wood. He knows it. He knows the coarse bark of the trees, knows the forgotten path winding down the hill, the rocks and animals that crumple the rare flowers and the dried leaves, leaving traces but disappearing without being seen nonetheless. This was his playground.

The forest shivers and Issei continues down the gentle slope, walking on roots and memories. He remembers running up and down the hill when he was younger, always in winter, always shivering in the cold and staying outside anyway.

The woods are suddenly less somber.

Kusano is silent, bouncing around him now, her luscious tail following her mad dance. He observes her and she doesn't do the same, completely lost in the joy of the moment.

It's for the best. He can stare at her, forget the trees around him, the Forest in the Underworld, the murder of innocence and the lack of throbs in his right arm. He can focus on the pointy ears atop her golden crown of hair, her swaying fluffy tail and the fact that she will not hurt him. In his dreams, in the images that take over his vision and mind, she nuzzles against his side and asks for treats like the child she is.

The urn rattles against the box after a hazardous jump that turned into a slide down wet moss. "Sorry," the teen whispers.

"Where do you want to rest?" He finds himself asking. "Up the hill, down in the creek? Maybe in the creek. There's a really nice stream, not deep at all, full of crayfishes and small pebbles. Oh, I know. There's that tree, hovering over the stream. It's the only thing holding the ridge together, with its roots. You will like it."

Plants shiver as he walks past them.

Issei hears the stream before he sees it. It's a transparent little water that goes around rocks and trees, in its own small canyon. At some spots, Issei could easily jump over the stream when he was a child. As he remembered it, a tree towers over the stream, almost mending the two shores into one bridge over the stream with his bulky, gnarly roots.

Kusano looks at him. She shows her pearly teeth in a toothy, eerie smile. "See you later, big brother." With a leap, she disappears into the tree.

Issei stills. The little fox girl doesn't come back.

He puts the ashes down, at the feet of the tree. He discards the box. With all the care he can muster, he puts the urn where it belongs. The roots welcome the urn as if they were made to hold it. They make a dark throne for the grey urn.

Issei steps back and claps his hands together. "May you find peace here."

 _Water._

Issei blinks. Something stings his feet. He looks and realizes he walked all the way here barefoot, on cutting edges. He slid a few times too. The skin of his feet is red and bleeding around his heels and toes. A mean looking splinter is stuck in one of his big toes too. How did he not notice?

He makes a beeline for the stream. He sticks a toe in it. Freezing cold. Yay. He walks in the water, cleaning his soiled feet and his wounds. Shiver makes his teeth chatter. Damn, walking back will be a pain.

 _Water._

 _Give me water._

The teen cups water in his hands. It burns his left hand coldly. He cleans his hands, and cups his hands again. This time, he walks from the stream to the urn. Drips fall quickly and he walks faster. Over the urn, he keeps his hands clasped.

A drop falls from his hand onto the urn. A ray of light passes through the dead foliage and reflects on the droplet.

Issei, on an impulse, goes down again. Logic can go lick somebody else's ass. Being illogical is as refreshing as the water of the stream. He plunges his hands in the water. It isn't as cold as he thought it was. Man, he is a big crybaby.

Cautiously, he cups his hands and brings them out of the water. A little bit remains, tranquilly falling from the cracks between his hands and fingers. Slowly, the teen stands and walks back to the urn. A constant flow of drops escapes his joined hands. A few steps later, he watches as the final droplets splash the grey container, as if he were gently watering a plant.

The once dull urn reflects the sunlight softly, everytime the light dances on the splashes and dots of water.

"It's better like that, eh."

He looks up. The branches upwards are not too entangled. He would have to cut a few just to get a nice lighting around the ashes' resting place. The light would still flicker, eternally playing hide-and-seek. It would be brighter. Resting places shouldn't dark and damp. Issei pictures open meadow with brooks, butterflies and peace.

It's not quite it, considering his surroundings, but it's better than a closed tomb where the sun never stays long enough to feel warm.

He surveys the surroundings. The spot is peaceful enough, not so easily accessible by his grandma's failing hips and his mother's weak body. Kids from the village don't come here too often. They prefer the other side of the slope, closer to the town and the sweet shop where they can buy tiny ice-cream that taste like water and sugar. The ashes will have peace and quiet. Bunnies and birds will be its companions when Issei does not have the will to come to deposit flowers and thanks and asks for grace.

Nothing will break its peace, except the buzzing.

Issei turns.

His ears ring. He follows the sound, going up the slope, finding a path, feet sinking into human detritus ground into a paste that destroys the harmony of the nature that surrounds the crest. Broken bits of ceramic, survivors that escaped the mill, hurt and wound the sole of his feet.

When he climbs one last giant rock, he sees what bothers the urn's peace. A line passes by the crest, clinging to pole abandoned between two rocks and mold. It quivers with energy and shakes with the wind.

Issei shivers, a long quiver that comes from the top of his head, snacking its way along his unwinding and sticky back and going to the sole of his feet, disappearing into the mud of broken things he treads on with his blood.

He approaches still, fascinated. He doesn't understand, but he must come closer. His right arm tenses but the buzzing, electrifying, lethal line is stronger than whatever the unfeeling bow may feel.

A terrible idea has come.

One touch and he is dead. The electricity will fry his brain and stop his heart. He will not have the time to scream for help. No time to feel pain.

That he is not what he wants.

He turns his head sideway. He wants to toy with the line, not stamp it without a mean to come back. He needs something less quick, less lethal. Something that won't make his mother cry if she finds his burned body in the forest.

His grandma does use sleeping pills. If he takes enough, he will probably end up where he wants to be. Probably. Otherwise, he will be punching Hades in the face all too soon. Plus, she will notice if he touches her reserve. His mother will notice if he has a wound. He cannot do anything in the house without it being found out sooner than later.

His gaze flickers back to the buzzing line.

The books in Bashir's library said he had to channel his soul to unlock a Sacred Gear.

He steps forward until his heels are the only part of his feet still on hard ground.

 _What does that even mean?_

The buzzing rings stronger.

 _How can I do this?_

The urn, at the foot of the hill, glimmers. Trees bend, waiting.

He grabs the line with both hands.

His right hand convulses and Issei feels the bow screeches before everything and anything is pain.

* * *

...

...

...

Hi. I'm still alive, as you can see. I hope you're all doing well, wherever you are.

This chapter has my hubby's seal of approval. He says the part in the woods was as freaky as it could be.

Yay for me!

(Is this making my hubby embarrassed? Yup. It's part of the fun.)

18/08/2019


	14. Life of a Prisoner

Issei blinks. Once, twice, thrice.

The scenery doesn't… change. The sky is still made of gloom and misery, the trees are still bending menacingly in his directions and the urn stays rooted where it was left. Issei is still on the rock, heels rooted there, and a warm breeze still raises the fine hair of his arms.

Issei looks down. His clothes are actually swayed by the wind towards the edge, towards the jump, towards death. He glimpses at the void under him; he could survive it. Break a few bones in his body, yet survive. The thought of pain doesn't tempt him. Neither does the thought of touching the electric line over his head. It has stopped singing and buzzing orders now.

The breeze changes direction, trying to bring him closer to safety for an all too short second, before it resumes pushing him towards the edge. It feels like a giant's breath, the sleepy giants of the hills Issei pictured in his childhood when he still believed in fairy tales and thought the shapes of the hills showed what was sleeping underneath, under a blanket of rocks and trees-

Warm breeze?

… December isn't a warm month.

And warm breezes do not come exclusively from one direction, smelling like rotten eggs and raw fish abandoned under the sun for far too long.

(Issei has seen a few horror stories about food in the backyard of the sweetshop. He would sometimes step on half eaten bentos carelessly thrown around garbage cans, because people are too good to take the time to not litter. _Things_ drilled by insects and bacteria scared the sense out of his nose. People should treat food better. Food did nothing wrong. Food is sacred.)

His stomach makes knots. Perhaps his stomach mourns all the food people spoil and he could eat joyfully, perhaps his body is tensing like crazy because he knows something big and red is exhaling behind him. Issei prefers to think about rotten food than what could have a breath that smells like death, honestly. Maybe, if he doesn't move too much, it will lose interest, stare and breath at something else and Issei will have the time to think about his crazy life choices.

 _Yes. Sounds like a good plan. Stand still, legs. Stop spasming, knees. Did I stutter, arms? Stop jittering._

"That was quite stupid," a voice rumbles.

 _Ddraig is behind me._

Issei turns his head and twist his torso. The action feels like pivoting the blocks of a tower, one by one, painfully slowly and gauchely.

A mountain of rubies shines softly, moving with each breath leaving the enormous cave of its mouth.

"Ddraig," the teen greets. His voice hasn't gone two pitches higher. Good. That's good. His voice doesn't shake, he isn't shaking, he is in control.

The hills shiver. Soil breaks and red scales glimmer. There are no hills. The Dragon is the hills. The great Dragon stares at him with one eye that does not blink.

 _Snakes don't have eyelids. Do Dragons have those?_

The thought makes Issei grimace. Ddraig appears unbothered by the puny human he is. He might be sleeping for all Issei knows, with eyes wide open. Maybe the voice he heard was just an imaginary one his mind created. He needs to make sure.

"Draig," the teen calls, louder. It sounds like a childish whimper.

The vertical iris inside the giant eye thins into a slit. Scales move and the rest of the crest of the hill where, a few minutes ago, Issei treaded, breaks open. A snout appears and under it, a mouth Issei doesn't want anywhere close to him. Muscles ripple under their scaly armor. "Have I given you the right to use my name, Child of Man?"

Another breath hits Issei in the face. He forces down the gag at the smell. Ddraig was not asleep and neither he is going insane again. It doesn't reassure him.

"How shall I address you, Dragon?" Issei uses terms he has wielded only once before. Shall, address, Dragon… they all belong to a world he wants to leave behind for good. A world that is unraveling itself before his eyes, one crimson scale after the other. The sun shines and scales reflect its rays fiercely. Insanely. Hellishly.

"I have a penchant for Red Dragon Emperor of Domination."

The anxiety of the first instant has disappeared. There is not time to be anxious or think about his dubious life choices. There is a Dragon in front of him and Issei is finding his marks. He knows that title. He knows Ddraig. Prideful Dragon, pitiful prisoner, belligerent friend.

 _Ddraig._

His dreams are half-truth, half-lies. Issei isn't the lecher he sometimes sees. He isn't the outgoing extravert who does everything to help his loved ones. His world is different, but Ddraig is here, Ddraig is a constant.

He can work with this.

"What was stupid?" the human asks. He prefers not to show how strange he thinks titles and attachment one can have for them. Staying in a prison for thousands of years probably did things to his tenant.

The Dragon stays silent.

Issei fights the twitchy dance his lips want to perform. The sky ripples in response.

"What was stupid, oh Red Dragon Emperor of Domination?" Issei considers kneeling and raising his hands to the sky to complete the picture of servility he is offering. In the end, his sarcastic tone is the only thing he unleashes. What a mouthful he blathered.

"Your decisions, from start to finish. Being a whiny child can be forgiven by others more magnanimous than I, but being a whiny incompetent babe who overestimates his capacities, that, God Himself would not forgive," Ddraig answers immediately.

 _O-okay?_

Ddraig continues to grumble, eyeing the little human condescendingly. "Your decisions went from terrible to lethal in one day. You should have never met that Devil prince."

That's oddly specific. It puts Issei back on the edge where he lived during his time in the Underworld. "I couldn't trust the other Devil to do the job."

"There were other alleys you could have ventured in. The Black Market, a golem, an avatar, a lower ranking Devil eager to work for recognition… the other Devil, as you named him, was not your only option."

"I didn't know," Issei breathes in and breathes out. He can't explode at his own mediocrity, at the Dragon's attitude towards his choices. "I knew only one way."

"And that way will bring you disaster."

 _More than you?_ Issei represses the question. "How so?"

"The Devil prince eyed you and what he saw pleased him. Devils are greedy creatures when desires overcome their senses. Unlike Dragons, they often let desires lead their actions. Mindless animals," Ddraig explains; merciless words and insults fly from his gigantic maw.

The explanation makes Issei tense more than the insults do. The disturbing picture such a thought awakens does not make Issei smile one bit. He sees himself in chains and exploited for the rest of his life as a glorified servant. "Riser might want to… acquire me?"

The Dragon nods. "Most surely. If he learns of my presence chained to your soul, you will become his, whatever your own desires might be."

Well, Ddraig is putting his fears into real, echoing words that make his ears ring. It's wonderful for his heightening anxiety. At least, he is honest.

 _Ahahahahah._

"That's- That is why I need help," Issei stutters his way to form a sentence. He chews on anxiety and bites on his bottom lip as he avoids the m-word. He confusedly hears his pride and his needs fighting each other, in the background of the civil war of his mind.

Clouds gather over their head. The brisk wind brings the smell of rain and violent spring landslides.

Scales scrap in a screech of metal. "Noted. And?"

Issei reflects on his next words. Can he be the most shameless person? He stole ashes, he can do this. He just needs to open his mouth and demand the big lizard be his Sacred Gear teacher or whatever. Easy peasy, lemon squeazy. "I need your help. Be my teacher."

"No."

Issei clamps his mouth on a sound that might have sounded like a whimper, if it had had the chance to be heard. He gulps humid air.

Dark clouds blanket the sky and obscure the sun.

"Teaching me will relieve you of your boredom." He refuses to accept his tenant's clear rejection. He cannot accept it. Ddraig has to help him. He has no other way to learn, no other teachers, no others who will help him.

"You are quite the imbecile if you think that every second that passes in this prison your beloved angels put me in is simply filled with boredom," Ddraig enunciates slowly. More soil tumbles from his neck as he twists it to stare at the boy fully.

 _Bad choice, Issei. Think, Issei. Think. What can you, 13 years old human with anxiety problems and a magic bow, offer?_ He bites his bottom lip. A choice. A gamble. A prisoner who hasn't had to face a choice in millennias.

"A war is coming," Issei starts slowly. Ideas and theories are filtered by his mind and everything is turning too quickly, even the clouds turning the sky into a giant hurricane's eye over their head.

Ddraig exhales. His giant snout constricts and the smell of abandoned seafood fills the space between the two. "Human wars are amusing; I will give you this. However, they are not of my concerns."

"It is not a war that concerns only Humans. It will be a Great War, like the tales of old. Your tales." Terrifying, exhilarating tales Issei doesn't want to be a part of.

The wind picks up again, bringing the smell of rain and thunder.

Another warm breath envelops Issei. This time, it shows the annoyance the Dragon's face cannot convey with his enormous, unmoving traits. "Imbecilic and presumptuous. I have quite the flesh jail this time." The Dragon looms over the boy and suddenly, there is a prey and a predator. "Considering the quest which brought you to me, it is clear you will not live long. Alas, death is a part of the journey."

 _His quest? Death is part of the journey?_ What is the Dragon nitpicking at, now? "What do you mean?"

"Your very first decision to help your parent brought you disaster. Death is a part of the journey. You should have left your mother go to the afterlife," the Dragon shakes his snout as he judges.

Issei's mind comes to stop. A drop falls on his face, slowly dragging its weight from his temple to his chin. Thunder booms.

The human teen reels back. "Fuck you." Lightning cracks and flickers in the sky. "Fuck you. Fuck you!" An inhuman snarl leaves his lips but Issei doesn't care, he doesn't care, he is so done, so fucking done. "Death is a part of the journey, my ass. You've been long dead and you're still stuck in this limbo. Your fucking journey stopped here and will never start again. Don't you fucking dare tell me right from wrong, you fucking dead lizard. I know I did wrong! I killed to get here, I killed and I lied and I will do it again."

Issei is panting and there are still so many words he would like to hurl everywhere, because he isn't his father, he will not abandon his family and who is Ddraig to tell him anything about the agony of losing the only person who ever looked at Issei as if he actually mattered?

Lightning strikes the ground. The wind howls.

The teen turns his back on the silent Dragon. Now, where's the fucking exit?

The hair on his nape stands on guard, and Issei surveys the rocks under him. If he jumps, he might break his legs. The exit might not even be that way, but Issei doesn't care. He will do just fine without the lizard. Just _fine_. Sacred Gear and channeling soul be damned, he will fight the Maous with his bare fists if he has to.

(His mind muses he will at least die quickly if he dares to be that stupid. Issei tells his own mind to shove it.)

He glimpse at the canopy. The urn shines softly through the foliage that hinders his vision.

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Ddraig rumbles.

Issei edges closer to jumping down. He calculates how much it's going to hurt if he lands on that slightly round rock that stands, what? A meter under him? Probably not much. He just needs to land nicely and not slide and he will be away from the Dragon and his ugly snaky mug and terrible words and –did Ddraig say what he thinks he heard?

Issei doesn't control his jaw. It hangs in the air.

The Dragon tilts his head.

"I-" What is there to answer to _that_? "I meant metafpk- metaphorically, you sicko!"

The Dragon humphs. Another rotting blow hits his interlocutor in the face. "I understood, you dimwit."

His massive head moves and a mouth decorated with teeth as tall as Issei appears. It stretches, muscles and flesh flowing, and the Dragon shows a demented line that could be an amused smile in another universe with different beauty standards. "For someone with a rotten brain, you yap a lot. Mutts like you die rapidly."

A pink arrow lodges itself in Issei's head. Neon sparkly yellow letters form the word 'rotten brain'. Issei pokes at it. It is solid. He pokes his head. He finds neither stickiness nor wound. _What?_

The lightning strikes lessen, and the wind slows down to a gentler breeze, one that could be found accompanying Friday night takoyaki eating contest back at a beloved stall where a chef cooks silently and his wife serves everybody with a smile and hands delicious confectionaries to sad boys.

Obsidian claws move, digging into rocks and soil. They're testing the ground. "We are in your mind. Anything and everything is possible here, as long as you imagine it so."

Issei looks up from the arrow. He looks down. He bends it slightly between his fists and the pink horror dissolves into water. Issei digs his fingernails in his palms, watching wordlessly as droplets fall from his curled hands. He can only think of ne eloquent word to summarize what he sees; _What?_

"You are quite the slow specimen, aren't you," Ddraig comments from the side.

Issei turns his head slowly. He glares. _I'm going to fight you, you freaky lizard._

Another warm breath escapes the massive snout. "I do not belong to this species of animals, although some bears my noble name."

A real breeze, humid like cold sweat, runs along Issei's spine. "You can hear…" _me?_

Had Ddraig had eyebrows, he would probably have raised both of them condescendingly. Since he has none, he simply sighs heavily. More soil moves as he rolls his shoulders out of their rocky cast. "We are in your subconscious, Child of Man. This is my dwelling place. Your body is currently lying on the ground, for your conscious mind has gone into the dark."

His incomprehension or refusal to understand must have been blatant on his face or in his mind, for the Dragon exhales through his pits of nostrils. Again. He moves his leg and Issei finally notices, in a moment of pure fear, that he standing not a rock, but on an obsidian claw. A sharp one too, by the look of it.

A flick of a draconian wrist has him sliding on hard, cold claws.

Issei falls down on the ground with a most graceful thud, down the cliff. It's cold and his face unfortunately meets a mean looking brush that tries to get his eyes out of their sockets with its twigs. He jumps back and he finds himself looking at a corpse. A corpse that does not breathe or move, resting on soil at the foot of a cliff. A corpse that possesses his features, his hair and his blood running down his nose and ears.

The shadow of a mountain covers them, breathing and the non-breathing. "The pain was too much for your human body. You will not survive if you are not aided soon."

Issei detaches his gaze from himself. _Don't panic, don't panic. Breath, you idiot. You're not dead yet._

His corpse says otherwise.

A shadow looms over the dead and the live boy. "That is what you get for trusting a goddess."

The whiplash Issei's neck suffers through hurts one second and is forgotten the other. Pain doesn't exist for real here, anyway. He can choose for it to not exist, according to his... tenant. However a goddess, that's not something he can control. Issei squints so hard at the underside of Draig's jaw that his eyes are filled with red, wriggling spots. A plan starts to form in his mind, an unformulated, made up of vague images, yet coherent piece... that could work. He shoves anxiety and his untimely death in a cupboard of his mind. "What goddess?"

Ddraig looks down. "Do you truly believe you came here on your own volition and that you were the one who awakened me with your suicidal attempt?"

Issei scratches his jaw. Flakes of dead skin fall like snowdrops. It makes sense, it makes sense, the weird decisions, going outside, Kusano who did not look solid, did not look like one of his dreams, the water, the questions he asked the urn, as if he was talking with someone- and it's a terrifying explanation. "The ashes."

"Oh. You do have a brain."

Issei's gaze flickers downward. He sees the corpse. His hand digs in cold, hard dust. Humidity makes a comeback, weighting on his shoulders and plastering his clotehs against his skin, _The plan, the plan is important. Think about the plan._ He looks up again. "Who is she? What does she want?"

Ddraig lazily lets his head rest on his paw, overseeing the cliff and the boy who almost screams his outrage. "What gods and goddesses want."

Issei grimaces. He pushes with his feet and slides his butt to turn his back on his _corpse_ , facing the enigmatic Dragon. "Who is she?"

"One you shouldn't trust."

Issei opens his mouth. Anger is rising again in his system, ignited by the Dragon's way of beating around the bush. Dark clouds gather over the spiky hills of the serpentine spine as the teen clenches his jaw. He breathes in. He exhales slowly, until his lungs are flat.

The sky clears.

"That goddess, she is the one who," words come short to explain what Issei is experiencing, "awakened you?"

"What a strange question." The Dragon's mouth moves and it could have been a condescending sneer if his only interlocutor could see the entirety of his maw. Ddraig doesn't care to lower his head to show his face to the little human. One cranes his neck, the other rests tranquilly. "Dragons are not awakened. They are."

Issei doesn't follow the powerhouse's philosophical musings. He has some earthling, human questions. "Has she put a spell or a curse on me?"

That would explain his behavior. And it would be utterly terrifying to know she put something on him without him noticing. His grandmother was right; picking up unknown things hasn't been his best idea to date.

(It's an understatement. His bad choices are numerous at this point. Issei vainly hangs into this statement. It helps his sanity. Sanity is good. Sanity will grant him the strength to face the big lizard.)

Hot air hits the small tanned face. It smells like rotten food and burnt skin. Ddraig… snorted. "You're too weak. Any goddess could control you to do their biddings without the need for a spell or a curse," Ddraig rumbles. It sounds like rocks sliding into an avalanche. Amused rocks that are making fun of one tiny, puny human.

"Yes. I am weak," Issei admits somberly. He knows. Too well.

"No need to repeat my words." Ddraig tilts his humongous head and truly focuses his gaze on Issei for the first time. One giant snake with wings looks down on a toothpick-sized teen. "I do not believe you belong to the breed of birds that recurs human's words as if they were important."

 _Do you want a fight?_ Issei's eyebrows twitch uncontrollably and all the fear he might have felt literally transforms into an urge to make orange American shredded cheese out of the lizard. "I have Youkai blood."

"It is not a thing to be proud of," Ddraig _disses_.

Issei wants to make a complaint to the Gods who have taken an interest in his destiny. His life is clearly on hard mode. Couldn't he at least get the freaking tutorial before they threw him in this mayhem? Or a cheat superpower? He is a grunt barely starting to grind and everybody else has already maxed out their abilities.

"I wouldn't be such an idiot if I had a Master." Issei drops the m-word and his pride. He begs. Maybe that will entice the stupid asshole. Time is ticking. He own't be alive much longer. It's now or never.

"Sturbborness can be a flaw."

Issei squints. "I'll do what I have to do to not fucking die."

Ddraig chuckles. It is a sinister sound, echoing along the jagged cliff. "Says the whiny child who still cries at night for one puny creature he killed to save his most precious mother."

Issei gulps back memories of actions done after walking past a magic Wall to obtain a magic, dancing flower. "I shouldn't have killed it."

"And still, it happened. Why torture yourself over collateral damage? You decided the fate of your mother and one kill or two shouldn't bother you. When the life and death of your brood is at risk, what is there to choose but action?"

The teen squints. His eyes burn with a familiar heat. "There should have been another way."

"There was none," the Dragon tilts his head and his two emerald eyes stab through flesh and bones and soul, "for you."

Ddraig wants him to beg. He is certainly not the amiable draconic teacher the other Issei does not understand nor cherish.

Issei understand what the Dragon doesn't say. He thinks it too. There would have been another way for somebody else, somebody stronger, somebody with more options, somebody who had more time and more help. He had nothing.

"How much do you know about me?" he asks sharply. How much has the Dragon seen, how much did he deduce, how much has seen of his secret despair and anger and mistakes? Does nothing belong to him anymore, will he forever have a condescend Dragon as the spectator of his life? Is even the plan he cannot name nor dwell on, the thing that might save his life, for fear of being overseen by the lizard, is it known now?

"Should I be interested by your life?"

A crack thunders.

Issei jumps to his feet. The crack definitely came from his unalive body and he doesn't dare to imagine what it might means. He pivots.

A crack darker than night has appeared under his body, breaking the scenery, running along the ground in patterns Issei knows. Those are the patterns on his right arm. They move and wriggle like insects, devouring everything around them to resemble them, devouring colors into the void.

"You're dying," Ddraig helpfully comments.

"No, really?" the dying boy responds flatly. His mind reels back to the first thought, the first image that came to him before the _plan._

"Have you forgotten? You will be in Hades' realm soon, Child of Man," Ddraig utters tranquilly. His claws hit the ground rhythmically, waiting. Waiting for his little host to fall into his trap.

"The goddess." Issei raises his head. Above him, Ddraig cranes his neck to watch him with green eyes that do not blink. Issei focuses on those eyes. They're less creepy than the body laying a few centimeters away. "She will help if she has led me here." She has to, because she stuck him in one messy situation. _Hello, your manipulative as fuck actions are killing me. Now help me._

Ddraig yawns. His maw opens into a black hole, gigantic muscles stretching. He lazily lets his head fall on his paw, his jowl hanging down to show teeth and bloody gums. "Goddess is her title, but her power is barely anything of notice. She was immensely weakened to end up in that state," he rumbles, eyes dimming.

Fuck the Supernatural and their egoistic motives. That alley is closed and Issei will strangle her, Goddess or not, ashes or not. "Will you help me?"

One serpentine eye opens wider. Issei sees his reflection, a tiny thing in a sea of green. "Why should I?"

The boy gnaws on his bottom lip. The teen watches the guest of his soul. Jumbles of words ring in his ears and sneers and green eyes hide under his eyelids. A great calm soothes the scenery of his mind. The plan will work, because it's too simple, it's so simple, so easy and yet, so manipulative… Ddraig is not one he can make an enemy of, ever. He led him by the nose to this begging scene; to this one pact Issei will not be able to extricate himself from.

The host stares at his chained companion. He thinks the first element of the plan somberly; _Because you lead me to this._ "So we can both be free," he adds harshly.

Another crack runs its course under Issei's barefoot feet. Ddraig does not answer. Warm air hits the boy.

He blinks. He stares.

The gloomy sky stares back. The wind bites his cheeks and rigid feet.

He is back.

He is back on his back, eyes staring at the sky, and everything aches, aches, aches.

He tries to flex his fingers, tries to move anything. His right arm quivers. Veins move and the bow appears in his hand. It creaks a cranky hum. It sounds so much like his antsy grandmother; Issei would laugh, if only his vocal chords would respond to his call and his diaphragm wasn't going insane, throbbing and spasmming like an epileptic victim. Air is a precious resource that does not belong to his flat lungs.

The forest looms over his fallen body.

A bird flies, high in the sky. Naked branches hum and move. They close the sky.

The forest is alive. Trees grow and breath, bark looming over him. Soil breaths and engulfs him.

Issei knows he is panicking. Air is not attracted to his body, rejected by his throbbing lungs, disgusted with his existence. Flashes of what happened there, in the Forest, what he did, what he committed, everything, everything is itching and burning his eyes. His hands are in Hell.

Murderer, murderer, murderer, he is a murderer.

His last shred of lucidity laughs. If his body could move, it would probably still be having an epileptic attack. Ddraig would also laugh at him. He _is_ laughing. At the back of his mind, distant rocks tumble down in an avalanche, amusedly bouncing into each other to fall, fall, fall and destroy.

Ddraig. The goddess.

A bunny hops around him. Soil follows its jumps, making dirty arcs around his pulsing corpse. A drop of rain splashes his forehead.

(He shouldn't be on soil. He looked before; what awaited him if he fell from the rock he stood on was a cascade of imposing rocks where his neck would break. Nothing makes sense anymore.)

His jolting eyes roll in their sockets. The rocks are still there. Around him, open and easy to climb. They shouldn't be like that. The urn is down the slope, still nestled in a temple of roots.

Flowers are blooming around it.

His right hand grasps warm, humid soil. His clawed, red, red, red left hand grasps a twig. It breaks with a creak.

 _The goddess. Ddraig._

They protect his fallen body.

The bunny nuzzles his neck.

Issei breathes.

* * *

Ddraig is one salty snaky.

And I leave you yet again on a cliffhanger. Did Ddraig agree? Did he refuse Issei's plea and thus will watch with disinterest his host's probable painful death?

More information next chapter!

Now.

My dear readers, you are awesome. Each and every of you who followed or favorited this story or left a message after your passage are wholesome and I can't thank you enough for believing this fanfiction could be, maybe, good. To be honest, this is the first time I have ever written so much and so consistently for a story. You boosted me with your own words. To this day, I still read your reviews and smile. Without your support and constant reading, this story wouldn't be where it stands now. It wouldn't have the same quality either. You make me write and you make me write well.

I hope you're a bit proud of the thing you helped build. I sure am.

Thank you.

Ciel


	15. Prisoner of Twice

Pain, pain, pain… what a strange word it is. What a strange thing it represents. When something harmful happens to the body, nerves tense and sense something is wrong. They send messages through the whole body in the form of electrical shocks straight to the brain, hoping for a solution. At least that is what Issei gleaned in science class, when he was listening.

Unfortunately, his brain does not perform as well as an animal would. An animal would try to survive. An animal wouldn't have touched the line. His grey matter thinks and offers one thing to fight off the pain; to scream.

Issei doesn't scream. Not anymore. Electricity shivers through his body. He doesn't really know if it is because he ruined his vocal chords or his transmission signals are just numbed to the extreme by his little adventure with a power line. He can only think, think, think, caged in an unmoving body. He remembers his grandfather teaching him how to touch the little electric fences surrounding the enclosure for chickens of the neighboring farms. Too many foxes trespassed a few years ago and the farmers put the thin threads of metal around the chicken house.

He remembers playing, trying to touch without touching, knowing he will get a jolt for his bravery. His grandfather saw him in the act and admonished him so severely… so severely…

("Put the back of your hands against the thread, Ise. Otherwise, your muscles will bundle up and they will close your hand around the line. And you won't be able to open it. Do you know what happens when you hold onto a power line? You get funky hair for your funerals. I'm the one who's going first young man, not you.")

 _You left too soon._

Muscles in his neck he didn't know existed spasm and he finds himself staring at the power line, his head flat against the ground, one unblinking eye shrouded by dead leaves and soil. He can make out forms and shapes around him. His gaze is unfocused, shrouded by shadows and spots of lights that blind him. Still, he recognizes a familiar shape lying by his feet.

The power line line lays on the ground, motionless, like an overgrown snake made of the knowledge of men and their mastery of all things fake and synthetic. It stares at Issei and the boy stares back. He cannot close his eyes. They're dry and hurting, but so is everything else.

[How long shall you wait before you demand its hand in marriage?]

Issei unclenches his jaw slowly. His muscles scream against the strength he uses to pry his cracked lips open. He gulps blood and his raw throat trembles. He produces a croak that may or may not have sounded like the Dragon's name.

Ddraig understands his gibberish nonetheless. [Who else?]

Issei tastes metal and humus. His Adam apple bobs up and down as his lungs greedily welcome oxygen.

"…It could," the effort and stuttering demanded to spit out two words force Issei into silence. As violating as the idea would be under normal circumstances, he hopes the Dragon can hear his thoughts outside of whatever they were in a few moments –minutes, hours? His conception of time is askew, like everything he sees. He might have burned his eyes into muddled pools. Another awesome thing to add to his evergrowing list of complaints he plans to slam dunk into whoever is watching his life and popping popcorn in their mouth. _It could have been the goddess._

[She is in her pot.]

Apparently, Ddraig can hear his thoughts outside of their shared mind space thingie. Marvellous.

He twists his pained neck towards the slope, muscles unrestrainedly slamming his head against the ground. He is a noodle. A big limp noodle.

A white ball hops around his right arm. It has long floppy limbs sprouting from its head and Issei dearly hopes it is a normal bunny and not another supernatural creature.

The long cream colored ears twitch cutely. A little black dot moves in the higher part of the thing and it hops away from his arm to the river that gurgles a few meters away.

(Either it gurgles pretty loudly; either Issei also buzzed his eardrums so bad they bursted and he is actually deaf and imagining sounds. If people who lost a limb can still feel it, he is pretty sure a deaf person could imagine sounds.

Lame, deaf and barely seeing anything as it is. Nice.)

The white fluffy ball wiggles its little bum till it can sniff around- suddenly, Issei sees better. Well, no. He can only see one thing; the urn and the flowers surrounding it. The rest is still a blur of colors and shapes. The forest looms over him, but he is not scared. The trees have stopped whispering murderous songs.

The urn gleams brightly. His eyes squint and he sees it clearer than anything else, gleaming and beaming.

 _Ah… that's true._

Whoever she is, she is on his black list.

Issei blinks. Or rather, his eyelids move on their own, no longer coordinated or willing to listen to anything his little grey matter might want to say besides 'arghhhhhhhhh' and other expletives he could use to express his pain. If his mouth and vocal chords were kind enough to work.

Dots swim around his head. The fact that they probably belong in his eyes and nothing is hovering around him is a detail. The fact that he cannot breath properly is a detail. The fact that he cannot move is a detail. The fact that it is getting colder and colder is a detail. Details, details, details. As long as he thinks about them, he will not lose consciousness. Probably.

[You're going to die if this continues.]

 _T-thanks for your…comment._ Issei twitches.

[I can heal your body.]

Issei sucks air in. He knows what is going to follow. The larges shapes he can see through the blanket of dots and lights covering his eyes loom. The trees are no longer an enemy of his, he can feel it. This instant, they seem to bend in warning.

[There is a price for such a service,] Ddraig continues. He sounds neither concerned for his dying jailer or the outcome of this exchange.

Issei struggles to stay awake. It's so, so cold. He feels so heavy.

The bunny reappears in his swimming sight, so close his little snout is huffing warm air against his cheek. He still cannot see the strands of white fur nor the real size of the little animal.

 _How much?_

[One of your fingers should do.]

A tremor runs through his limbs. Issei tries to concentrate on the consequences of selling his body to his soul's guest, but he cannot. Another epileptic attack is building, it's building and he is going to die.

The bunny's humid nose nudges his cheek.

 _Do it._

[Good choice.]

The pain recedes, crawling from his fingertips and toes to his limbs and torso. Waves after waves, the pain moves sluggishly back to his heart. A headache drills his skull, and then slides to his throat with a vengeance for the loss of its home, clenching and throttling to finally end up slamming against his sternum. It surrounds his ribcage, strangling his lungs and pressuring his heart.

Issei feels alive. It might be his last moment alive.

 _You said the pain would go away!_

[No.]

Issei curses- his body spasms. His heart shatters.

He breathes in.

He breathes out.

He gulps down, this time because he wants to. The flesh inside his throat constricts and moves and it's on bloody fire.

Issei laughs. He can breathe. He can see the naked branches of the trees surrounding him and the clouds, up above. He can move. He can. He's better than a minute ago. He will take it. And not argue with his scaled guest about the pain he still feels. He will take being alive over being dead.

The bunny nudges his cheek.

Issei sits with a hysterical chuckle. He regrets it. The pain coming from his abs takes his breath away. It feels like he did a marathon, swam across the Chinese sea and did the plank during several hours and then went to sleep without stretching. And all of that, he did with boulders chained to his ankles. All in one day.

The bunny-and it is a bunny! Issei is a bit relieved his vision is also coming back- makes cute sounds. It's like a sneeze, but infinitely cuter.

"Hello, there." Issei doesn't really know what should be said to a rabbit, but he will try to get the message across. He half bows awkwardly. "Thanks for helping me."

 _Would petting it make it run away?_

[As much as I am amused by your obviousness, I think it is in your best interest to look down.]

Issei does. He still has two legs and two feet and two arm- oh.

A bright red thing covers his left arm. Bulks of matter that looks like metal cover his left arm, from round mounds protecting his elbow to a sharp divide over his wrist that leaves it uncovered and mobile. His fingers twitch and it moves in return, molding his arm. A scratch of his remaining uncracked nails later answers his unvoiced questions. It is warm to the touch. Smooth. It is all too organic in nature. It feels as if it was made of nothing but his flesh. It's not supposed to be there but it feels all too comfortable against his bones.

This is his Sacred Gear.

He raises it to his eyes, watching the way the surface reflects the sparse sunlight. It's not… The wielder squints. Up close, he can see under the surface, as if the Gear was made of- what's the name of that rock made of sap? Amber! He can see through it as if it were amber, a red and dark one in colour. Veins runs through the amber, dark streaks of crimson he sincerely hopes are not full of his blood.

As much as it pains him to do so, Issei sucks into air deeply. His lungs expand and it burns, but he has to voice his joy. "It worked," he mouths.

For the first time since he grasped the powerline, the bow makes his presence known in the back of his mind. The sound of a string being pulled and released echoes in his host's ears, without rhyme or rhythm, a lyrical mirror to the excitement Issei feels.

[If you're talking about the fact that you destroyed your brain, then yes.]

His pinky tingles. He clenches his fist. A wisp of his ragged hair obstructs his sight, but he can still see his finger gleaming in the dim light.

He brushes his hair out the way and finds himself looking at something definitely non-human.

The pinky on his left hand is not a pinky anymore. It's a claw. Half of its length is a black claw while the remaining flesh is scaled and crimson. Like the Gear, the scales feel smooth to the touch when Issei pokes at them. They also feel warm. Way too warm. He doesn't palpate the claw; it looks a bit too sharp to be handled without care.

Ddraig was no joking when he said he was taking it.

Issei winces. He admits it doesn't have much to do with the receding pains that clench his muscles together. _What do I do now?_

[Work hard so I do not stay stuck too long in this unbecoming appearance.]

 _What?_ Issei looks down and there's nothing but fascination in him as he feels the Sacred Gear attached to his soul and body. Even the claw is nothing but a small addition compared to it.

[This is **Twice Critical** , the name you humans gave to this failing form. It doubles your nonexistent power for a short amount of time. You must break through this form quickly, dimwit. No flesh jail of mine should use this for long and I should certainly not have to gaze at it for extended period of times.]

More power to hold when he has next to no idea on how to harness what he already possesses. "How do I do that?"

[Train hard.]

Issei blinks. That's as non-descriptive as it can get.

The Dragon sighs. [Say it. Say its godforsaken name.]

That's a bit better. Issei clenches his fist and flexes his wrist. The Gear moves with his wrist, following the movement in a comfortable manner, as if it had been there forever, just another limb to his body he never knew he had until today. A ray of light is caught by the green jewel and it gleams with sealed power.

Issei squares his jaw. He frowns. He raises his arm up in the air. "Twice Critical!"

Something builds up in his body, something that wants to let loose from its cage and fly everywhere in, from the tip of his eyelashes to the last of his toes. It blooms in his arm and seeks to travel through his veins. It's hot and it floods out- just to disappear. As quickly as it started, the sensations leave him panting on the ground.

[You're weaker than I thought.]

Issei tries to move his left arm. It is cold and abandoned. The jewel atop his forearm has turned a shade of grey. He shudders. "What do I do now?"

[Nothing. You do not possess a big enough reserve to cast a spell to keep it hidden nor do you know how to cast one. It will discharge itself into the air in a few hours.]

"A few hours," he repeats slowly. He cranes his neck and yes, yes, yes, the sun is high in the sky. How long has he been outside?

"What time is it?"

Nobody answers. The trees move with the wind, the urn gleams, the flowers bow, the bunny huffs and Ddraig chooses silence.

Issei trembles.

 _Mom. Grandma._

"They will think I left," the boy mutters. _They will think I left and that I'm not coming back._ "I need… I need to go home."

[You are forgetting the most important matter, you dimwit. There's a Goddess behind you.]

Issei drags himself to his knees. Everything hurts. Every muscles in his body want him to lie down and stay there forever. Everything hurts and the walk is long. "I gotta go home," he repeats.

Ddraig does not retort.

Issei crawls. His fingers dig into soil, into dead leaves, into rocks and into things that jab his hands and break his nails. His claw grates rocks. The sound hurts his ears.

The bunny hops ahead of him. It stands, front paws in the air, in front of Issei. It makes a small noise.

"I don't have time for you," Issei mutters. He drags himself further away. He knows there are a few big rocks littering the slope… he could use them to hoister himself up.

He bangs his head against a rock. The stars and dots he sees are definitely not in his eyes this time. He clenches his jaw. The taste of blood is starting to be familiar. Issei grasps the rock that so kindly banged up the rest of his brain (yeah, yeah, he was the one who didn't see it, but couldn't it have been somewhere else anyway? Why did it have to be on his way?) and hoisters himself to his knees. The effort takes his breath away.

The bunny sniffs. It nudges Issei's thigh.

"What?"

The teen pauses before whatever angry words he wanted to spout come out. By the feet of the standing rabbit, there's a branch. It seems sturdy enough. Issei tentatively slides his left hand around the peaked shape of the rock until the weight of his Sacred Gear anchors him in place. His pinky digs into the sturdy material and leaves a jagged mark. His right hand slides off and miracle of miracles, he doesn't slip off and faceplant again. His human limb grabs the stick.

He plants in the ground. He painfully drags his right leg until his foot is against the ground. One bounce of his jaunty knees later, he is standing.

The stick doesn't break, even though it shoulders more of his weight than his legs do.

Issei swallows. Okay. Okay. He can do this. Maybe. Where is going now? The world turns.

The bunny is still there.

"Do…" Issei pants. "Do you know the way?"

The bunny hops. Issei stumbles to follow. The little creature is merciful to hop ahead, stop and wiggle his way back when Issei's knees tremble or when his arms burn so bad he wants to sit down and never wake up. It nuzzles his legs and Issei thinks about his family and the fact that he has to go back home now.

So he marches on. His feet have long since lost all feelings and his fingers, gripping the staff in an iron and amber grip, are bloodless. A random thought comes, wondering why is he following a rabbit and what happens to people who follow such creatures down the rabbithole, but normalcy is for people whose name is not Issei.

He climbs the hill one step at the time. The world is turning, a headache wants to drill his skull open and nausea is clenching his throat, but he is on his way.

He is at his doorstep before he can think of all the way he probably caused a heart attack to one of his family members.

He almost cries then and there. He grips the doorknob with both hands. Mom. Home. Grandma. They're there.

"Thank you," he whispers.

The bunny's nose moves and iridescent eyes gleam in the light. It hops out of sight.

His claw grates the doorknob.

He looks down at it thoughtfully.

"What am I going to tell Mom and Grandma?"

Ddraig, the snarky little piece –calm down calm down, he can hear your thoughts- doesn't speak again and leaves Issei to his tortured visions of the future and the heart attack he might actually give to his grandmother.

But even the asinine thought leaves after a few flashes of ambulance coming and going and another corpse burnt into ashes.

He is so tired.

He puts his left arm behind his back. That will do. He turns the doorknob softly with his other hand.

His grandmother is at the end of the corridor, pacing back and forth in front of the landline. The curly wire swirls and stretches as she moves. "Tatsuya, my grandson is outside and he hasn't come back yet."

A pause. She stops pacing. Her wedding band gleams in the dim ambiance brought by the winter light.

Issei closes the door softly. He tries to shake off the mud and dirt stuck to his bruised feet. His parents always told him to act his best when he was at his grandparents. His efforts make a rather ugly slit of a wound on his big toe open again. He drops blood on the mat.

He looks up. His grandma is still talking. He can wait to ask for a rag.

"I will not wait. You bring your sons along. I already called the others; they're searching around the village. Put on your boots and search the river around your backyard, you're the only one who knows how to walk through that thing-" She stops, but this time, it's because she found the freezing boy waiting patiently by her door. Her mouth is making a round shape and wrinkles are accumulating at the corners of her eyes.

It's his time to shine. He waves with his right hand, the non draconic one. "Grandma."

The phone's static sound buzz in his ears. "Oi, Chiasa, no need to scream in my ears. I'll go search that damned river, but I assure you, your boy won't be in there," a rough voice grumbles.

Chiasa –Issei sometimes forgets her name. Her name, for him, has always been 'Grandma'- brings the phone to her lips. "No need to go. He is here."

Issei doesn't know what hurts more; the way she slams the phone down or the way his feet throb. He thinks, after another second, that it is the pained look she wears on her face.

Disappointed look.

"Where were you?" She runs to him. "I searched for you all morning. I called everyone –even that damned Shizuku- and their mother and nobody knew where you were. People are searching for you in the hills. They're searching for your… what were you thinking? We're in winter, it's minus 10 outside and I thought- I thought they had taken you." Her face scrunches there, like it did at her husband's funerals.

His legs weight a ton, but they still move as he wills it. The floor cracks and whispers sad stories. Her face, up close, is still sad and disappointed and frightened. "Grandma…"

Issei arches his neck and bends his back.

Her wool cardigan feels ragged and frayed against his open palms. He holds onto it like it's the only thing that makes sense anymore. It might very much be. His chin finds her shoulder and it ends its journey there, resting. Finally. "I'm home."

He feels her tense shoulders loosen up. Her hands travel to his back and one taps his shoulder soothingly. Issei has never felt so small. "It's okay, it's okay. You're home."

The wall he stares at glows orange thanks to the flickering light of the light bulb dying over their heads. The boy closes his eyes and basks in an old scent that feels a bit like home and safety.

His mind stays silent, woody creaks and grinding scales maintaining the peace he yearns for.

Finally, she breaks free from his hug. He covered her in the filth he collected during his deadly adventure. He opens his mouth to apologize, to say he is so damn sorry because he is ruining everything, everything-

His grandmother holds out her hands, hovering hesitantly over the part of him he gave away. He doesn't move; she brushes the Sacred Gear with her fingertips. Her cold fingers remind him that they always been cold, always held and cradled by his grandfather as if they were great treasures.

"What happened?" She asks. It sounds like a croak, but it's not right, his grandmother would never croak.

Issei doesn't know how to answer so he doesn't. "We need offerings for the goddess in the backyard," he blurts out.

"What?"

Issei blinks. He spoke clearly, didn't he? "What?"

"Repeat what you said."

"We need offerings for the goddess in the backyard." Issei bites his bottom lip, thinking long and hard. There's something else he wanted to say. Ah. "And a rag. I put blood on the carpet."

Her brow wrinkles her tired eyes. "I can't make sense of what you are saying, Issei."

"Me neither. Nothing really makes sense."

She cups his face. "Look at me, Issei. Do you remember what happened this morning?"

Issei wants to tell her he sold his soul and body to a Dragon and he doesn't know, maybe he should have died after all. He is making her so distressed and unhappy. His grandmother doesn't let him voice his thoughts. "I know one thing; I woke up this morning and you weren't in your room. You left your shoes and everything else inside. I thought… I thought you had left."

Issei covers her hands with his because they're cold, cold, cold. "I'm not my father."

Pools of dark chocolate lighten a bit. It might be a trick of the light or her soul lightening up. "I know."

Issei relaxes against her touch. Another thought trickles from the disaster his mind is producing. "Where is mom?"

"In her room."

Issei pivots. To her room he is going to, then. He wants to see her so bad. Maybe cuddle in her bed if she allows it and sleep till the next century.

"No, no." His grandmother grabs the hem of his tattered shirt. "Come to the kitchen. You're so cold. I'll make you a good tea and get you some warmer clothes."

Issei doesn't budge. He stares at the door leading to where his mother is. It's so close. Just a peek should be okay…?

His grandmother tugs his arm. "I'll get her for you, Issei. You need to get that mud off your face."

Issei relents. He must look dreadful now. Better to wash up before he scares his mother away. His eye catches the gleam of his amber Sacred Gear and he wonders if he could hide it under bandages. It would look bulky for sure, but it would only be for a few hours…

His grandmother drags him by the hand to the kitchen with a strength so big that it makes Issei wonder where she hides her muscles in her tiny body. His feet follow but his gaze falls on the phone and glues itself there. So much he has to turn his neck at an impossible angle to keep looking. Finally, he finds the thought that was tickling his mind. "Call them. Tell them I'm home."

The town people must be mad, searching someone lost out there when it's so cold outside.

His neck is righted back into a normal position when the little granny he thought of as weak pushes him into a chair. She shakes her head absently and her thumb slides over his cheek. Crumbles of dirt fall on the table. He's dirtying more stuff. He can't really bring himself to care anymore. He leans into the touch.

"Tatsuya will take care of that." Her hand combs his hair out of his face gently.

Issei hums. He sits back against his chair. His bones go soft and he goes back to being a big noodle. This time, it doesn't bother him. He is home. "Who's Tatsuya?"

Her hand leaves his hair. He mourns the loss of warmth her cold hands brought him. "Remember the bee charmer?" she asks.

He looks up. "There's a bee charmer here?"

She is putting water in the kettle now. She turns to smile weakly. It's the greatest thing he has seen today. "Yes."

"Oh." Issei doesn't remember hearing about a bee charmer. He doesn't remember a lot about his grandparents' hometown, to be honest. The rides to get there were always silent and tense and only happened once a year before his little family would go back to their usual grind.

"Don't move from this chair." His grandmother points her finger at him accusingly, as if he would leave again without notice. As if he had the strength to move at all.

"I will stay here," he promises anyway.

She disappears into the hallway, taking her perfume and her frayed cardigan out of his sight. His forehead hits the table without a sound. Like there's nothing inside. It might be true. The thought of lifting his eyelids seems to be a lost battle.

Wheels squeak. He wonders who's playing with toy cars in the house.

A hand touches his shoulder. "Ise."

He would recognize that voice anywhere in the world.

He cracks his eyes open with a force he hadn't a second before. "Mom."

She is as pale as ever. Her lovely red little tuque is still atop her head, covering her skull. She wears at least three sweaters that are not her size, but who cares. They're keeping her warm and her cheeks are the color of a rose. His grandmother is not by her side, which means she wheeled herself to his side and oh, he hasn't seen her this well in months.

"Ise." Her hand grasps his arm in a firmer grip. She simply calls him, as if he would disappear if she didn't devour him with her unblinking eyes.

That makes him feel worse than- than when he was dangling from a power line. He covers her hand with his, Sacred Gear and all, because she is his mother and she is sad because of her bad son. "Sorry. I didn't mean to go. I'm home."

She looks at his arm without a comment. She simply holds him tighter. "Welcome home."

His grandmother appears in the doorway, hidden behind a mountain of clothes. She twists her torso to see them. She squints. "Hikari, I told you to wait. He is not…"

His grandmother is kinda cute when she is so fretful. "It's okay, Grandma. I'm glad we're all here."

She dumps a dozen sweaters that are definitely not his onto his lap. They smell like his granny and they're a bit too small, but Issei puts one on because he is, he realizes with a blink, freezing. He thinks he makes a hole or a dozen with his claw when he pushes his Sacred Gear through the arm of the sweater.

"Drink your tea." His grandmother grumbles endearingly.

He raises his head slowly and sees a steaming cup of tea waiting for his lips.

"He is tired." Hikari soothes the aches in his back with a tender hand.

"One more reason to drink tea! He has to put something in his belly. When was the last time you drank, young man?"

Issei ducks his head. His Sacred Gear gleams through the fabric of the pink sweater and oh- his family is awesome. There's no other words to describe the feeling he feels when he sees humans who don't know about the Supernatural or so little take the weird thingie on his arm in stride, because why not.

A blanket is put on his shoulders. Warmth, blessed warmth envelops him.

He stares and yes, his mother let go of the blanket where he hid the Glorygold. It sits on his shoulders, bringing blood back to his abused feet and hands. The warmth stings his limbs back into life. He tucks it closer.

"Drink that and-" his favorite old person is rummaging in the fridge like there's no tomorrow. She raises a box full of orange liquid in the air. "Eat this! I made it a few days ago, but it should still be good."

She cracks it open and sniffs it. She nods with a nod and dumps it into a bowl. "Soup will warm you up alright, you will see."

One minute later, he has a warm bowl of orange soup in front of him and a spoon forced in his hand.

Issei devours the meal. It burns his tongue and the taste is unknown, but he has never had a soup so good before.

"To the bath you go, mister," Chiasa urges. She takes his bowl and spoon away.

Issei mourns the last drop of his meal left on the spoon he hadn't the time to lick.

He takes a sip of his tea. He lets the liquid warms his inside. "You don't want to know?" he whispers. He glances at his hand and the visible claw that is now his pinkie.

Chiasa shakes her head vigorously. "It can wait. You need food and a bath."

He turns to his mother only to get a similar answer. "Your health comes first, Ise."

"You heard your mother. Bath time, now!"

And that's the story of how Hayashi Issei found himself staring at the ceiling of the small bathroom in his grandparents' house, immersed in hot water. Feelings are comings back to his limbs and really, the silence Ddraig is exhuming would make him worry he lived through a realistic hallucinations because insanity finally settled in his rotten brain, but no. His Sacred Gear is still attached to his arm.

(Soap makes huge bubbles when it comes in contact with it. It's fun.)

The warm bath also makes his brain come alive. He is back to thinking about a lot of things that just popped out of his mind when he was crawling his way back home with the bunny.

(The animal was definitely a supernatural being. Issei is sure normal rabbits don't guide wounded humans to safety.)

He has to tell his grandmother and his mother _something_. He has to explain the concept of Sacred Gears, gods, goddesses (and the friendly one who almost killed him- yeah, he is going to cut that part off), Devils, Angels, Youkai. All that cool knowledge he doesn't know how to explain he acquired.

 _I have hallucinations of another me who is a pervert but also kinda cool. Sometimes._

That only sounds good in his head and he knows it.

And fudge it; he has to explain how he saved his mother.

Oh, Issei has written a pretty story in his notebook, something straight out of a fairy tale. Gore and darkness belong in the background as the protagonist advances merrily on the road to success. An easy tale, so filtered it could be drank and taste like water. To ease his mother's worries and the questions his grandmother would one day ask, he had put his best skills to work. Who would have thought his overthinking and lying tendencies would one day help him to write such a perfect story?

Not him.

The notebook is in his room and his mother and his grandmother are trusting him. He had neither time to perfect his act nor does he have the strength to go get the little book.

He walks out of the bathtub. A decision has been taken.

He grabs the Glorygold blanket he stole from his mother and opens it. The seal is still there. It feels warm against his touch. He grasps it. One fumbling around later (to put on clothes that are too big and a few decades old according to fashion), he is ready. He clenches his jaw and off he goes, marching through the house.

The Glorygold dances in his fist.

His family is where he left them, hands cupping cups filled with watered down tea.

He sits and sees their amazed expression when they glimpse at the fiery golden flower that saved his mother-

The truth spills out too easily.

He first focuses on his hands, on the pale scars his teeth left behind around his nails. He tears his gaze away from that wreck guiltily. He should look at his family. Their gazes meet. His mother is as pale as fresh snow, reminding him of worse, sicker times. She blinks slowly as she follows the stream of words Issei cannot control. His grandmother is the picture of stillness, her thumb being the only thing breaking it, caressing her wedding band anxiously. Issei bears their silence and continues with the flow of words and gore. Truth has to be given freely.

He talks about the Underworld. He talks about what happened in the Underworld. He talks about the Forest beyond the Wall and what happened there too. He talks, talks, talk.

When the words stop coming, his mother breathes. A shuddering breath that makes her entire body looks like a fallen leaf, subdued to the wind.

Issei dials the emergency number in his head. He wants to scram for the phone and call the doctors, because of course she wouldn't take this well. What was he thinking? _Fried brain, fried brain, you're killing your mother, ahahahah._

"Ise." She raises her hands. Issei tenses for- for whatever bad he will have to hear. "Ise, my darling son."

She stands and Issei scrams to her side. He holds her up and she holds onto him. "Mom, sit down," he begs.

She does as he says, but her hold on him doesn't loosen the slightest bit. He pets her tuque and wonders how he can soothe her.

"You shouldn't have been forced to do all this," she gasps. Her face is crumpled and her eyes shine in a way Issei is familiar with. The tears will come soon.

"No one else would have done it," he says. He pats her shoulders soothingly. _Don't cry. Don't cry, please._

She shakes her head. Her hands tug him closer. "It doesn't make it right."

Against all the odds, she doesn't start crying. Issei thanks the stars. However, she is staring at him as if the world is one big mess and she has to right it. He doesn't want her to have that kind of weight on her shoulders. He isn't that fucked up yet. He wants to tell her he will be just fine. He will be okay. They will be okay.

"Issei…" his grandmother starts.

He catches her nibbling on the inside of her bottom lip. With effort, he stops the motion of his jaw. He was doing the exact same gesture. His lip feels jagged and bumpy against his tongue. That's one thing they have in common, beside the morbid silence they adopt when they do not know what to say.

He sees the uncertainty weighting on his grandmother's brow. It wrinkles her eyes in a way that makes her look a decade older than she is.

Finally, something settles down in her gaze. "You suffered a lot."

"I didn't die."

Two hands cup his chin. He looks down and sees a resolute gaze he hasn't seen in months. "It doesn't make it any fairer to you, son."

Issei shrugs.

 _It's not fair to you either. The child you raised died. You're left with this mess. Sorry._

Issei, the Issei who left money in his coworker's backpocket to find peace, the Issei who worked two jobs to make ends meet happily or the Issei who dragged himself through the Underworld in a quest to find an extinct flower, all those Issei paled in comparison with the child she reared.

It was the version of Issei who hadn't given up on himself yet.

His mother grabs his attention and his nose with her fingers. She pinches his nose. He bends to offer her better access. She flicks him. "I will make sure you never have to do this again."

Issei wants to counter that with a lot of logic and reason and _I would do it all over again for you_ but the mood has been lifted into something happier and they all want to enjoy it.

"And I want to have a serious conversation with the Dragon inside of you. What's his name? Durugu? I'm going to kick his scaled behind if he tells you anything weird."

Issei can't help it. He laughs.

The rest of the day is a blur. A happy blur. One where they spend hours watching old movies and baking cookies and joking and somewhere in there, his Sacred Gear fades into nothingness, sparkles of amber dancing in the air like the Glorygold does on the counter.

Issei will cherish the memory of that day until he dies, he just knows it.

A grumpy Dragon, not so much. [The Goddess is still waiting in her pot.]

 _I know._

They've been together, huddled under the Glorygold blanket who's bereft of the Glorygold, for a good hour now. Issei glances at the clock.

The credits of the movie roll on the old, bulky TV.

"I need to go see the goddess before sundown." No one will make Issei walk outside while it's dark. The forest might not want him dead anymore, but he isn't taking that kind of risks.

His mother lets her head fall on his shoulder. "Do you have to go?"

"…yes."

She looks up at his face. "Come here."

It's awkward. Full of sharp edges and bones. Issei puts his hands flat against the sofa, afraid his weight might crush her. The only thing he dares fit against her is his cheek. His nose is in her tuque and he smells lemon and childhood memories. She brings him closer with her small arms and she is the one crushing his waist.

It burns his eyes.

He swallows. He squares his jaw and suddenly, he can't do hold back anymore.

He hides his face in the nook of her neck and cries.

Her hands slide off his back. He rights himself slowly, so slowly his mother has the time to bump her forehead against his jaw.

"If you're not back by super time, I'll come get you, young man."

It feels strangely warm to be threatened with a curfew by his mother.

* * *

With a bento box full of rice balls and steamed vegetables in one hand and a bottle of sake in another, Issei strolls toward the glistening river he can see through the greeneries. He munches on a riceball his grandmother forcibly put in his mouth.

(His grandmother fretted herself into a cooking frenzy to make sure he had food in his belly and food to offer to the goddess. Apparently, knowing who she was would have helped make the right offerings. Bad offerings can bring a serious amount of mayhem. That sole thought made her froth at the mouth. Issei laughed at her. She slapped his Sacred Gear.)

This time, he's fully clothed. This time, he has a plan.

He licks lonely grain of rice stuck to his lip away absently. "Ddraig, could you help me if she tries anything funny?"

[Define help.] The Dragon answers too quickly to not be interested.

Issei grins. "Make sure she doesn't control my mind."

[It will cost you.]

Issei climbs over a gnarly root. "So it doesn't bother you if a random weak Goddess," he catches his breath, feeling something like shamelessness quirking his lips upward, "takes over my body and uses you?"

Issei feels Ddraig leave, slithering back to his abode. It feels like a weight has left his shoulder and he walks straighter.

Dragons are prideful creatures, eh.

He walks the rest of the way in silence. The river is farther then he remembered it to be. As he approaches his goal, the ground doesn't feel as hard under his boots. The ice that has taken over the soil recedes, leaving behind a mush of humid earth and humus. The air smells like rain and spring. Unnatural, it is. He marches on.

One last turn and he is standing by the hill and the power line. Neither of them moved. Which is great. He doesn't need a live Dragon hiding under the hills surrounding his house.

He stops mid-step. The sheer lushness of the greeneries around the urn, that's new. When he left, the tree where the urn sits was certainly not blooming. The urn was not sitting on a throne of roots, grey color almost completely hidden by the blooms and flowers surrounding it.

Issei observes the throne of roots quietly.

He does not bow nor claps his hands to pray. He sits on his heels, keeping himself away from the train of flowers. He tests the springiness of his knees, lightly bouncing up and down. He will be ready to run if he has to. The goddess, whoever she might be, almost killed him. She tried to "help" him, true, and maybe he would have had to resort to such a dumb technique anyway, but the fact remains. She almost killed him.

Issei plans to meet Hades later than sooner.

He places the bento box and sake bottle between the potentially murderous being and himself.

(Issei holds on the hope that the Goddess needs him for something. She has to, otherwise she wouldn't have let him take her with him on his mad dash at the crematorium. She wouldn't have led to this place.)

The flowers around the urn moves gently, so colorful that they attract Issei's gaze effortlessly. He unwillingly compares them to the dullness of winter that surrounds them. They clash with the décor. Too yellow, too orange, too crimson. Too supernatural in nature.

The sweet scent of spring feels heavy on his tongue.

Issei blinks. Something tickles his alarm, something he can't quite pinpoint.

The flowers are moving. There is no wind.

Issei licks his ragged lips. He struggles to swallow his heartbeat. "Who are you?"

It's dry, but it gets to the point. It looks like the beginning of a civil conversation, even if a part of him just wants to be anything but civilized. He concentrates on that, on that anger that boils in his guts. He could have died. His family would have never known why he chose death after all this time.

 _You led me to Ddraig. You also almost killed me. Don't play dumb now._

The flowers quiver. Delicate petals brush against it each other and wrinkle as friction between the flowers becomes more intense. "Exchange."

Issei shivers. A cold breeze creeps up his back. He is sure, however physically impossible it is, that it is not a mouth that produced that word. It is neither a sound that his mind heard –it doesn't feel like when the bow or the lizard speaks.

The flowers, akin to an unreal painting, move in sync back and forth. As if a breath was drawing them in and then out.

The flowers spoke.

[As much as I find your slow realization fascinating, I had the thought, unholy as it might seem, that your brain could perhaps work faster. Answer her. Now.]

Issei admits he might have taken a lot of time contemplating the source of the voice and not enough contemplating how his life might end if he is not quick enough. Thanks, Ddraig. "I-"

[Names have power. Do not give it away.] Ddraig rasps.

Issei starts a nod, catches the motion in making and awkwardly turns it into a stretch of his shoulders. He doesn't need to look weirder than he is, nodding in response to a voice he is the only one to hear. He remembers that lesson from the book on etiquette Bashir so kindly lent forever. Never give your name. Words have power; they bind things into existence. To name something is to give a part of you to it; to be named is to be bound into that name.

"I do not give you power over my name, I simply present it to you, goddess. My name is Hyoudou Issei and it is not yours."

The urn gleams. The flowers dance.

"I am called Persephone." A voice whispers raspily, as if it came from a mouth not made for human speech.

Issei is sure now; the voice is coming from the flowers.

Issei does his best, his very, very best to not jolt, jump and scream. The flowers, enchanting as they may be, are too freaking close to his booted feet. The little things might be magical (oh, who is he kidding, they are and he is not. Death by magic flowers seems a bit too fairy tales like and his life is anything but fairy tale.) and may hurt him if he doesn't control himself.

[Dimwit.]

 _What?_

[She gave her name. Speak.]

Persephone... Persephone? Where did he hear that name before?

Issei purses his bottom lip. He knows there's a special way of speaking with faes, youkai and the likes. Does it apply to gods and goddesses?

Scales grind against each other. [Repeat after me.]

Issei cocks his head and listens as best as he can. The flowers are a bit of a distraction, especially since they now seem to tuck the soil around them to protect their feeble stems.

"Why is the wife of Hades-" _fuck, fuck, fuck, she is **his** wife_, "resting in these foreign lands?"

The flowers bend unnaturally back. "Do not speak of him in my presence."

The goddess seems to be having some sort of marital troubles with her husband, the freaking lord of the Realm of the Dead. Ahahah. _Ddraig, if I die here, I'll blame you for the rest of eternity._

[Be a bit more imaginative in your threats. I've heard this one far too many times.]

Issei _does not_ pout. Starting a book on insults and threats might be a good idea, just to find a way to piss off the Dragon as much as he pisses him off. He kicks away the amusing and horrifying thought that Ddraig has been threatened likewise before. He doesn't need to think about the consequences of listening to a probably insane big old winged lizard.

He decides, wisely, to not let the talking flowers and mad goddess wait more. "Miss, you led me to this place. I doubt you need only this. What do you want?"

He realizes a few seconds later, as the flowers turn and form a circle, that calling a goddess 'Miss' is probably not the right title. She doesn't want to be reminded of her husband, so calling her 'Madam' probably would have gotten him roasted or something, but still. There's nothing about the proper etiquette to use when mad gods stand in front of you. Most humans probably snivel and shrivel, but the wiggling flowers are not exactly that threatening –as long as Issei doesn't think about the fact that she almost led him to his death and her flowers are probably poisonous.

Damnit. Now he is thinking about it. Issei scouts farther away.

The corollas turn in sync and every damn leaves and flowers seem to be starring into his soul.

"What is the price of your help, human?"

Issei blinks.

He stares at the flowers. A goddess stuck in a pot of ashes, talking through small flowers, estranged with her husband, is asking for his help.

[If you dare offer it for free, I will make sure you choke on those flowers.]

* * *

Hello. It's been a while. Some of you thought I had disappeared, but no! I am back with more and we are getting to the fun parts of the story. ;)

I know. You thought you would finally know what transpired in the missing chapter beyond the wall thanks to mommy and grandma's asking questions. How did Issei find the Glorygolds? How did he survive? What happened?

And you got none of this. They know, you don't. You will get the truth of it soon, don't worry.

And finally, things don't go Issei's way. He couldn't tell pretty lies to his family about his dangerous and gory trip to the Underworld. He had to bare his soul. He had to be truthful. Truth can be useful too. A lot of things are about learning in this arc.

Also, one detail; don't you find weird he immediately saw his grandmother's wedding band in the dim light. You would need a very good eyesight to see something like that immediately, no?

Shoutout to Rosso Angelo for being an awesome beta reader and wholesome human in general. Check out his story (White Void)! Very well written and action packed!

15/12/2019


	16. Painting of a scenery

Issei's gaze flickers from the urn to the flowers. He scouts back on his heels until he is at a respectable distance. They would need to grow into a freakish tree to be able to reach him. He would fancy more space between the dancing plants and himself, but that might be viewed as weak. Acting like a prey won't get him in the predator's good graces.

"The price of my help will depend on what you want, Miss." Issei smacks his lips and tries to not think about how the roots could come up from the ground to choke him for his words.

Nothing moves to assault him.

[So you do have some common sense.] Issei knows he isn't imagining the grating sound of scales grinding against each other. He knows the way Ddraig purrs is indeed real. Disgusted goosebumps still cover him. [Your mouth shall not taste her flowers yet.]

The flowers bow back into a circle. Their leaves brush against it each other and if their petals were black, Issei would think they are a gaggle of mystifying Japanese girls talking about mysterious, dangerous, no-boy-allowed subjects. Instead, they are colorful flowers who seem to be the mouth of a maybe dead goddess and they still make him feel small, boyish and flustered.

This time, his confusion doesn't have to do with his anxiety kicking in because he thinks they are laughing at him. The perplexity he feels as his eyes follow their graceful waltz has to do with their ability to murder him. How will they do it? Will they devour him alive? Will they swallow him like they did the water?

They turn their corollas toward him. A waterfall of petals faces him.

"Water," they rasp in unison.

Issei tilts his head. His right hand goes to his lips.

The creaks of an unhappy bow are the only thing that startles him fast enough to stop him from gnawing on his poor broken fingernails.

He remembers, like the dregs of a dream that linger, what he did when he was under the goddess's influence. He watered the urn. She probably wants him to do it again.

Issei, for all his heart beats faster, does not answer her plea quickly. He remembers she almost murdered him once already. She did so with an expedient that awakened the Sacred Gear in him, true, but without Ddraig's fondness for humanoid body parts, he would have had funky hair for his funeral. He remembers and he doesn't believe she only wants to be watered. Anyone could have done it, Sacred Gear or not. Why forcibly awaken his Boosted Gear?

Persephone, wife of Hades, has secrets and Issei only likes those he knows.

For now… he will talk before her patience takes a dive. "I will do it, but on one condition. Promise no harm will come to the family living on this land."

That's a bit vague, Issei realizes. There is more than one family living around these hills. "Families," he corrects hastily. "The families living here."

[I knew this miracle couldn't last.]

 _And what would you have asked for, oh great Red Dragon of Domination?_

[For you? A brain.]

The flowers do not quiver nor move. The voice, now daintily feminine, floats in the air. "You have my word no harm will come to them as long as they do not wish harm to me." The urn gleams. The flowers turn a shade darker. "And as long as they do not help the God of Death find my new abode."

There is something serious here, something Issei needs to know because he does not want to be stuck between the god of 'goodbye life' and the goddess of 'I can choke you with plants'. Both can kill him. Both might kill him if he is on the way of their fights.

Unluckily, one of them decided to reside by his home. He will bargain with the one he can stand and hopefully, she won't level the entire countryside because his face does not comply with her aesthetics.

His father used to slap him out of the way when Issei was too close, straining his ears to listen to what his parents were arguing about behind closed doors. He was told to mind his business and had no desserts on those nights. Hades will not simply slap him out the way. The dude seems metal enough to slap him out of existence.

Issei has so many questions, but he will start with the easiest one.

"You want some food, Miss?"

He doesn't wait for the answer. He flips the box so the lid is against the ground. Slowly, he raises the box. A few grains of rice fall from the riceballs into the ground, but nothing rolls away. The scent of warm rice and vegetables swirls from the open lid.

The flowers shake from left to right and it is the only visual cue the boy receives. It also suffices to tell him the goddess does not care for the delicacies his grandma made with so much care. More for him, eh.

He bounces to a stand and crab walks his way to the gurgling river. For an unfathomable reason –ahaha, who is he kidding, the goddess has something to do with it for sure-, the stream that shouldn't even be licking his ankles is surging out of its bed, rapids forming around rocks where Issei laid once upon a time, drowning them in water.

Jumping into its small brook looks like a bad idea, however he might land and wherever he could put his feet. The soil smells like rain and looks soggy enough to have seen a tsunami or two. The whole brook looks ready to collapse and landslides into itself.

He kneels. His hand grips a large root that doesn't look too shabby. His back bends and his hand holding the box plunges into the roaring water.

He yelps.

The water is blood-curlingly cold. He walked in that. The fuzzy memory makes him shiver. His toes curl in the comfort of his shoes.

He rinses the box quickly and fills it with clear water. His fingers already feel like stiff sticks and Issei wonders if cold can make them fall off. Very movie-like, but his life is a repetitions of impossible events these days.

He tiptoes back to the frontier of the flowers' circle, watching the box and the water swirling in it. Stepping on them might incur death and no, no meeting the husband of the lady he just learnt the existence of is planned. He bends his waist and tries to gently tip the box so a steady trickle of water falls on the urn and surrounding flowers. He is quite sure watering flowers isn't supposed to be a synonym with dumping a load of water on them.

The trickle is swiftly renamed 'violent waterfall'. Freaking trembling, numb hands.

The goddess' controlled flowers, nonetheless, move towards the drops, greedily bending and straining their stem up to get as much as possible.

Issei tries to straighten a little so he isn't as close to the drinking –and yes, they're drinking. He can see the water flows through their stems as if they were swallowing. It's fascinatingly creepy. His movement doesn't get him father away; it only makes the water cascades from the box in one last brusque motion.

He steps back.

The flowers don't eat him.

That's good. Persephone didn't lie. She isn't going to murder him. Yet. Good. He will take that.

[Wimp.] Ddraig chimes in.

Issei ignores the Dragon in favor of the flowers controlled by a goddess and the urn in the center of magically moving plants. Persephone is the one who can alter their surroundings, clearly. Ddraig can mutter and be a grouch all he wants. Issei knows his priorities.

"Is that good?" he asks tentatively when the flowers stop gurgling water.

They take their time to answer. "Yes."

Issei sighs. He crumples back to his heels.

The sake bottle he abandoned by the riceballs sings a tempting tune. The sweet scent of rice and veggies is tempting his nerves and feelings. There's clearly nothing better than to eat his emotions while he is still alive.

[Don't drink on an empty stomach.]

Issei stuffs his mouth with a riceball. Drinking will have to wait.

A sneeze stops his jaw mid-bite.

Rice grains are slowly and painfully grinded down his throat. The only things that move are his eyes inside their sockets. A glance to the side is all he needs to know the source of the sneeze.

The bunny scrunches its little nose at him. Its white fur puffs in all directions and Issei would gladly bestow the title of 'cutest damn thing of the day' upon the creature if it hadn't spooked his heartbeat into silence for a solid 10 seconds.

 _I hate you, you fluffy sneezing machine._

Issei gulps down his mini-panick attack and the rest of his riceball.

The bunny hops to the bountiful lid and sniffs around without a care for the territorial hands that immediately hover protectively over the food. A wet little snout pokes Issei's horrifyingly scratched fingers. A little tongue licks his wounds.

It tickles.

The amused teen chooses a tiny potato in the heap of vegetables. It feels cooked just right between his fingers; neither crumbly nor too hard.

It goes into his left palm and he offers it to the snowball of a bunny.

The little animal blinks at his inhuman claw. It sniffs at it for second, his little black nose moving up and down like the wings of a hummingbird.

 _Oops._

Issei switches the hand that bears the round yellow legume.

The bunny immediately attacks. It nibbles on the steamed potato and Issei stops questioning the rules of the world. If a wild animal eat something, then it's good to go. It should know what's good for its health. Even more when it is clearly a supernatural being.

It's tiny tongue and teeth tickle his palm. Issei lets the potato rolls around in his grasp, watching as the bunny follows it with its open mouth.

(Issei noticed the way his fingers don't hurt anymore. He noticed how his hands appear to have been wounded a few days ago and not a few hours ago. New skin, pink and tender, is where hollow holes and flesh should be visible. He noticed how his nails aren't as cracked anymore.

He has many things to contemplate. However, luring the bunny with food is just a side-quest for now. An important side-quest. Anything that can help his mother gets back on her two feet is mightily valuable.)

The bunny finishes its meal. It leaves Issei's hand alone and hops back, sitting on its two rear legs. It mimics the teen admirably, paws crossed over its torso.

Issei flexes his pristine fingers. He grabs the sake bottle with it. No burning sensations come from his now seemingly perfectly polished nails. He pops the cap open and breathes in.

The scent of alcohol burns the inside of his nose.

He takes a sip. The sake bites his throat familiarly. He is back to the takoyaki shop offering sweet and salty treats, mingling with older people and hearing happy stories. He would like to hear one now. Something about a long awaited family reunion that was wholesome and full of hugs and happiness. Something that would put a warm light in his chest.

His chest is warm. The spot behind his ears is warming up at an alarming pace. The sake does its job and scorches its way to his stomach. His heart remains cold.

[The fact that you can be so distracted when you were terrified of Persephone a moment ago astounds me. Your stupidity seems to be limitless at this point.]

 _You see…_

Issei glances up and smiles. Or at least tries. He doesn't know if he mastered the art of smiling when his life is on the line yet. "Was it all? Do you need anything else, Miss?"

 _I'm so scared, I forgot to be._

The flowers stand still. "I am surrounded by death."

The goddess claims she is surrounded by death. Funny how she led him to his own demise.

"It is winter," Issei offers. He can't change seasons magically. He can't do anything, magically-wise.

[I deplore your conversational skills.]

 _I deplore your inability to shut up._

A ray of the dying sun hits the urn. The grey facade turns a shade of orange. "I need life to surround me."

Issei screws the cap back on the bottle with his thumb. Life, life, life. What is life? What could be an emulation of life? What could he get her that would help 'surround her in life'? People? Animals? A pet? Issei eyes the bunny critically. Maybe he could attach it to the urn or something with a leash and a collar.

Ddraig sighs. [Plants. She wants plants.]

He lets the bottle of sake rests on his knee. That's not a bad idea. "Would a few winter plants help?"

The flowers start their dance anew. "It would suffice for now."

"Oh." Issei aims for another riceball. They're damn good. He will steal his grandma's recipe as soon as he is back home.

Scales move and a path of goosebumps covers the little human's back. [Dimwit, I believe you're forgetting something.]

 _What now?_

[This is supposed to be a transaction.]

Issei blinks. Ah, yes. He looks at the bottle and decisively puts it down. The alcohol isn't helping him think at all. He just feels the flowers aren't as dangerous anymore. He feels the sun's dying rays are pretty and the day ends on a beautiful high note thanks to them. He feels the ground under him. The warmth it exudes lulls him into a tranquil trance.

He feels a lot. He is not sure he likes feelings that much.

"For the plants…" Issei trails off. He doesn't know how to phrase his words into a respectful demand. "What can you give me in exchange?"

He cringes at his own bluntness. Second embarrassment is real and it physically hurts.

The wind blows.

The colors of the flowers' corollas change with the light that shines briefly on the brook.

"I'll give you my blessing."

[Say yes.]

Issei looks up. He looks down. He squints at a random space. Why are they talking about blessing and why is Ddraig excited about it? If the lizard is happy, he cannot imagine how bad or how great the stuff is. Maybe both. His jolly and neighborly Dragon doesn't seem to care about his health. "You will bless me…?"

[You will receive powers over her domains. You will not be her Champion. Therefore, this is… the best thing that can happen to a worthless human with no magic and no way to use that filthy Twice Critical,] Ddraig whispers in his ears.

The flowers bow and he can only imagine a woman putting her hand under her chin, attentively waiting. "Do you accept, Issei Hayashi?"

Issei toys with the cap of the sake bottle. She wants more from him than plants. She wants more and this is just the beginning. Can he walk away with his life? What is the better option for him and his family? Should he accept? What are the consequences? Does he have to take a decision now?

The bow creaks a soothing tune in his ears. Ddraig remains silent. The trees watch.

Issei stands. "I do."

He bows.

The urn gleams. The rational part of his brain acknowledges there is no sunlight filtering through the leaves to make it so. The sun is hidden behind the hills now. The strange warmth that permeates the air still rests heavily on his shoulders.

The flowers shift into a slow pendulum movement. "Make haste, then."

 _Tick, tack._

* * *

Issei slowly climbs the trail that brings him back to his humble home. His boots meet frozen ground with a repetitive sound. Pebbles squeak under his soles, rolling down the slope as he advances. He doesn't see the holes he avoids nor the branches he stomps on. He barely registers the way nature loses its luster and lush with each of his steps. He is leaving warmth behind and going back to winter. There's a cluster of questions and information littering his mind. He can't focus. Time to tidy up the mess.

"Ddraig, what is Persephone the goddess of?"

[My name is not Encylopedia.]

Issei slows down his pace. This might take a while and talking aloud to someone his grandma and mom cannot see might bother them. Explaining he has an ancient and grouchy being in his head might also lead to an uncomfortable talk. "Oh. You don't know. Okay," he says innocently.

His pinkie-turned-claw tingles. [Spring. She also has power over the realm of the Dead, but that might have changed considering her predicament. ]

The teen cheerily hops over a branch. "Thank you, Ddraig."

[You are not welcome, you little scum.]

Issei beams. The Dragon caught up on his little trick, it seems. Pride is too easy to manipulate.

"Sooooo," the small human takes a sharp turn into a path he knows snakes its way to the top and will deliver him to his grandparents' footstep, "I will receive powers over nature?"

[Perhaps. However, I cannot say with certainty that you will be able to harness these powers, but this is better than just trying to survive with that horrendous Sacred Gear.]

The beaten path disappears into dry grass; leaving only hints of its existence by the way the plants have not overtaken the thin patch of weeds that cuts through the woods. Issei needs to watch where he puts his feet, now. The dying light of the sun does not help him navigate. Shadows are growing and they muddle his steps. He advances slowly, minding the bushes and the pinecones.

"She must be in a very tough spot to offer this," he muses. Voicing his thoughts aloud is strangely satisfying. It helps his mind defuse the bomb his stress can be.

[She is. Another reason to not trust her. Gods and goddesses are very much alike humans where they are cornered; both act like trapped animals.]

"Do you know why she could be unhappy with her… ex-husband?"

Hades does not seem enthused with people in his visions. He is not a cheerful one… he is a shadow that looms over all. He lurks and snarls and does not offer mercy to his enemies. His allies are not offered a better fate. It is strange to place his wife and her colorful flowers in his presence.

(Issei remembers vividly how the God of Death deemed Devils a pest. Another reason to never ever become a New Blood. He is going to go bald before his time if he has to deal with that amount of stress.)

[According to the hearsay, she was kidnapped by Hades and forced into marriage. Her mother's tantrum –Demeter takes care of life in its floral form- forced Zeus to reconsider the nuisance his brother had created. Normally, that perverted excuse of a god wouldn't have cared, considering his own habits with unmarried maidens. Finally, after humanity went through a long winter -I believe you humans call them ice ages-, Hades conceded his young wife leave his sides a few months each year. That is how the Ancient Greeks explained the seasons. They put emphasis on a goddess who did nothing but cry. In truth, the long winter was brought around by Nidhogg.]

His mind reels in all directions. "That's… bad. And too much information at once."

Ddraig snarls. [She was kidnapped by Hades. Staying in a territory devoid of life might have angered her, considering her domains of power.]

"Makes sense," Issei whispers. He steps on crunchy twigs.

 _He kidnapped her._

The pity Issei doesn't want to feel gnaws at his heart.

He clears his throat. Persephone went from blacklisted to maybe ally fast, but it is necessary. They will use each other and that will be the end of his worries with her. He feels what an ally should feel for his companions. He has effectively sided with Persephone. They share the same enmity for Hades, now.

He needs to be prepared if the god ever comes around. Maybe he won't. How important could a married squabble be for him? He isn't the god of marriage or fertility. He ensures immortality stays out of humanity's reach and that's it. Right?

"What about Hades? Does he lord over other domains beside Death?"

[He isn't the God of Death, dimwit,] Ddraig immediately retorts. [He oversees the kingdom of the Dead, the passage of souls towards their Hell and Heaven and the punishments and rewards given to souls.]

Issei _loves_ the way the Dragon condescendingly explains everything. One more insult and Issei will miss school and his bullies. They were less witty and certainly not residing in his head. "Meaning?"

[He will not come to the Human realm. His subordinates are in charge of collecting souls.]

The deal he made with Persephone does not weight as harshly on his shoulders as it did a minute ago. "This is safe deal. He will not come here without a good reason."

The Dragon hums in accord. [As long as nobody dies by her urn, you will be fine. The Supernatural will not approach her willingly, considering her status. Keep your mouth shut and Hades shall not come forth.]

Issei steps over a cluster of weeds. He can see the walls of his house now in the dark twilight.

"I think I like you a lot more now," he confesses. It's true and it doesn't hurt to voice it. Maybe Ddraig will care about his health if they can develop a friendly link of sort.

[You are my bearer. It is in my best interest that you do not die a ridiculous death at the hand of a pitiful goddess. It would give me a bad reputation. Furthermore, I dislike her husband.]

Well, that had been almost touching until it wasn't.

[The plants will probably help her get her strength back. You must be ready if she ever strikes you down. Learn from her, learn what she can do, and when she strikes, the Damocles sword you shall put over her head shall fall.]

The teen stops where the woods regretfully regress into a proper garden. A star twinkles over the horizon. "Do you think she would attack me? She gave her word."

[Words are easy to twist, especially for old beings.]

Issei watches the trees bend with a sudden gust of wind. He puffs white air out. Spring hasn't reached the top of the hills.

"One last thing." Issei rests his back against a tree. The cold exuded by the ground make shivers run across his skin. His bare tree is a poor protection against the biting wind, but he makes do. He still has much to mull over and a pressing question he needs answered.

"How does this communication work? Do you hear everything I think? Do you see what I see?" That would suck to a level Issei cannot even explain with words. His privacy –his visions- would be naught but an open TV channel for an old Dragon to amuse himself with.

[No. I do not have contact nor can see the outside world. Neither do I hear your thoughts. I see… fragments. Your thoughts reach me as images.]

His shoulders unclench. He didn't even know he was so tense. The tree squeaks against his weight. "Like a video?"

[I do not understand what you mean.]

Issei bites his lip. How can he explain what a video is? _Think, Issei. You have a brain, use it._ "Do the images move and are… a continuation from each other? Are they linked?"

[Hmmm.] Issei waits. His chapped lip bears the brunt of his fears. [Rarely. You do not concentrate on an idea very long. Whatever plan you had for the bunny, I did not see anything beyond you catching it brutally. The longest 'videos' I've seen are the ones where you die. You have quite the imagination when it comes to plants.]

"Oh." That's good. That's so good. He has privacy. He has a place where he can hide his secrets. He can hide his visions. He can keep under the radar the things he hasn't told to anyone, not even to his family. There's a difference between telling his mother and grandma how he found a cure and announcing he has visions of things that do not exist.

Issei glances down and looks at the pebbles on the ground. So grey. So round. So nice. He must think about the quite nice pebbles now.

Another question swims to the surface of his consciousness.

"Ddraig, what is a Champion?"

[I see you cannot keep your word when it comes to questions, dimwit.]

Issei relaxes some more. The bark of the tree digs into his coat. He might get used to be called names, if it means he will get answers after. "It's the very last one, I swear."

A warm breath hits his nape. Issei tenses. Spring hasn't reached the peak. The trees are bereft of green and life. Does the wind come from the valley?

[A Champion is a human chosen by the gods. They represent them on the earth, so to speak. In truth, they do the menial jobs the gods find below their station. The rewards are never worth living as a glorified slave.]

Ddraig wheezes another breath and it inexplicably becomes real against his wielder's cheeks. [Had she offered that, I would have forbidden any further exchange with her.]

Issei nods. "Thanks for looking out for me."

[Hmph. Thank me by training and unlocking my Boosted Gear.]

The human boy smiles. "Yes. I will follow your guidance, Red Dragon Emperor of Domination."

Ddraig makes a noise that sounds like a tired exhale. [We shall begin tomorrow. You may rest tonight.]

The wielder of the Twice Critical, soon to be replaced by the Boosted Gear, cheers.

The teen saunters to the doorstep of his house. He wants his bed and supper. He will get none before he chats with his mother and grandmother, he knows. That's pretty okay, though. He likes talking with his mother. She talks back. About the topic at hand. Genuinely interested and invested in what's being said, adding her grain of salt and listening intently to everything he has to say. When was the last time she did that?

A long, long time ago. Hell, his… the man she married was maybe still around when that last happened. Before he went to the Underworld and-

And he doesn't want to think about the Underworld anymore. Been there, done that. The past is the past and the present is far more delicious. He will savor what he has now. He is going to enjoy every little second, every little expression and pout she makes till the day he dies. One should never take a miracle lightly.

The branch he used to climb the hills is where he left it, lying by the threshold. He rights it against the wall. "You're a good branch."

That's where he notices it. His hands are empty.

"Ah." _Issei, you're not a good branch._

Of course, he had to forget them with the spooky flowers.

The door opens. Light floods the exterior and he can't see anything because that just about blinded him. "Issei?"

He squints. That human form is either a very well made statue, either his beloved grandmother is standing here. "It's me, Grandma."

His grandma tugs her cardigan closer. "Come in, then. And close that door quickly, will you. It's too cold outside for my old bones."

He does as he is told, kicking his boots away in the same movement.

"So?" she asks anxiously.

Issei takes the time to observe her messy braid and shining white locks before he talks. It's nice to have a human around. It's nice to be able to talk with a human. It's definitely better than talking with flowers and a dead goddess about her marital problems.

"I forgot the container and the bottle," he starts.

Chiasa sweeps the comment and loss of her precious sake away with the flat of her hand. "Pff, that's not important! What happened down there? Who is she? What does she want?"

Her braid shakes with her jaunty steps a moment later. "Nevermind, let's go to the living room. Hikari is in there. It's better to discuss everything there."

He trails behind her large steps, minding his limbs so he doesn't collide against her small slippers or step on them and make them all fall. Her bones are probably fragile at her age and he has seen enough hospitals and doctors for a lifetime. Plus, the berating he would receive would probably be legendary. She has her little temper, his dear grandma.

Therefore, he doesn't bump into her when she abruptly stops at the entrance of the living room. One moment later, she throws herself at the couch with an agility rarely seen in someone in her 60's.

Issei stays standing, his arms dangling by his sides.

His mother smiles and the whole room lights up with a warm light. "You're okay?"

"I am." He nods.

Chiasa waves at him. "Look at him, Hikari. He still has all of his limbs and his head is attached to his neck. He is alright."

Issei is not going to comment on that. Indeed, he is in one piece. The panic attacks he may or may not have had are in the past now. The flowers and how he pictured they would kill him are in the valley, by a lonely brook that's overflowing. Everything is fine, here.

"She wants plants," he announces. His fluster at announcing such a weird thing is met with incredulity.

"Plants?" Hikari repeats softly.

He shuffles until his shoulder touches the wall. He relaxes against it. "She is the goddess of spring and she needs..." Issei cringes at the weirdness of the words he must repeat, "life to surround her. So she needs plants."

His grandmother squints. "Is she Kono-Hana-Sakuya-Hime?"

Issei tilts his head. _Who?_

"Isn't that the Goddess of the Mount Fuji?" Hikari chimes in.

"She is also the goddess of spring," Chiasa shots back.

"No. The goddess by the brook is the Greek goddess of spring." Issei decides to cut out the whole 'her husband, maybe ex, is the lord of the Dead' mumbo jumbo. He can totally keep that information for a later reveal. Like, when he is dead. Nobody needs to know that kind of useless little thing, anyway.

Chiasa throws a nut in her mouth. She munches on it thoughtfully. "Oh. The one who was abducted by the god of Death?"

There goes his hope he could silence that part of the story. Damn Hades and his infamous story. "How do you know that?"

"I read books, Issei. Do you?"

He glimpses at his mother stifling a chuckle behind her hand like the traitor she is. Aren't grandmas supposed to be loving and caring and totally biased towards their grandchildren? Issei wants a refund.

"Not that kind of books, I guess."

The pointed looks he gets from his family firmly brings him back to his science class and how his teachers awkwardly broached reproduction and the organs used for it. Apparently, those things weren't only made to be spoken off in soft tones, behind your hands, hidden under a boulder.

(Sadly, the perverted version of himself knows way too much useless facts about the XX chromosone bearers, like their sizes- and even that, Issei is not too sure what to make of. Normal people don't compliment girls on their sizes, right…? Girls don't like boys talking about their weight. Why would they appreciate someone talking about their sizes? Isn't it the same thing? Issei is confused.)

He coughs in his hand. He needs to rein his wandering mind in before he starts another debate with himself about the utility of his life. Or his doppelganger's uselessness.

He catches the way the thin broken threads of his mother's tuque catches the light and turn incandescent. They change colors, going from red to orange to dark pink, mixing with the white threads.

 _Pink…?_

[You are thinking about a pink book she read.]

 _Japanese trees and how to take care of them._

"Mom," Issei calls and she looks at him with clear eyes and isn't that wonderful? "Do you know what kind of plants we could bring her?"

She tilts her head, red tuque covering the peach fuzz that's starting to cover her pale head. "A Japanese Quince would be good as a year-long shrub..."

Chiasa humphs. "It will not be able to take root. The ground is frozen."

"Grandma, she is the goddess of spring. It feels like spring down there. The ground isn't frozen," Issei chides back. _Don't talk that way to my mother._

"What else, mom?" he asks with a gentler timbre.

"The Christmas Rose. It's a flower that blooms in midwinter in good conditions. I can't remember the real name… Helle-… " Hikari looks down, her gaze glued to her wriggling hands.

Issei wants to jump on her and tell her she did awesome and she is awesome. He jumps to his mother's side to hold her hand. Words do not come out.

His grandmother chuckles. "In times like this, Internet is a wonderful tool."

This time, Issei is truly flabbergasted. "We have wifi here?"

Chiasa smiles. "Even better! I have a laptop."

"Seriously?"

Chiasa turns her head slowly towards her grandson. Her braided hair seems to break free from her coiffure to form a makeshift mane around her head. "In which century do you think I live, Issei?"

Issei toys a thin crevasse that runs through the parquet with his big toe. Speaking his mind might result in getting burnt food for supper and he is starving. Talking with a dragon and a goddess is absolutely tiring. Better keep it safe.

(The cold sweat running along his spine is just… stress. His grandmother is not putting the fear of old grannies in his soul with her blank expression. It's okay. It's okay. He won't have nightmares. He won't.)

He glimpses at her shaking shoulders and he knows she is making that strange laugh where no sounds come out of her mouth. It's like a happy exhalation. His tongue pokes against the flesh of his cheeks. He will let it slide. "Is there any flowers shop close by?"

"No. But friendship exists for a reason."

Issei and Hikari glance at each other. "What reason?" the grandson asks tentatively.

"Using each other," the grandmother shots back.

 _Of course._ Issei wants to judge his grandmother's values and morals, he really does. However, an unnamed part of his brain considers her words and comes to the conclusion that he agrees.

"I know one old man who steals my mushrooms every year because we are 'friends'. He has a greenhouse. I'm sure we will find a few plants that aren't too shabby there."

Issei and his mother exchange a long, meaningful glance. Hyoudou Chiasa is one of a kind. And that's putting it lightly.

"Issei, go in the pantry and get me some of the jars labeled as 'peach jam'."

The boy scrunches his brow. "What are those for?"

"Bribery." She flees to the door on that note.

Issei and Hikari do not question the cackles they can hear coming from her vicinity. His mother pats his hand. "Go. Don't make her wait."

"Okay. See you soon." He does not sneak a kiss on her cheek, but he does squeeze her hand for a second.

Issei trails after his mad ancestor, leaving the warmth of the living room for the windy hallway. "Grandma."

She stands by the door and that is where he sees her punching her hand into the sleeve of her coat. "What now?"

He raises his left hand. "My pinkie is a claw."

"You thought I didn't think about it?" She scoffs.

Chiasa throws a pair of gloves to his face. "There you go. Put them on and off we go!"

* * *

His grandmother waddles her way to the town, nestled in the valley of hills.

He remembers rolling hills and never-ending fields all too clearly when he stares at the surrounding darkening landscape. With a shudder, he walks faster to join his grandmother. She trots and hops and he has troubles keeping up.

She knocks on the second door they see after they enter the main and only street of the town. Issei isn't even sure if it has an official name an at this point, he is a bit too terrified to ask.

The door is opened a few moments later. The smiling man who holds the door open loses his joy when he sees the older Hyoudou. He actually makes a face. "Why are you here, Chiasa?"

"Hello, you old coot." Chiasa pushes him out of the way and enters. She waves at Issei until the boy realizes he has to come in too. "This is my grandson, Issei. As you can see, he is a bit slow. I think I showed you pictures of him, once. You know, the chubby baby who drooled all over a book."

The old man shakes his head. He opens his mouth to say something to the intruders who barged into his house. Chiasa doesn't let him riposte. "That's okay if you don't remember. He will be staying with me from now on, so you will see him often."

Issei wonders how many houses his grandmother wants him to invade before she is satisfied. He knows he is partly mortified, partly amused. The fact that that their interlocutor is older than both of them combined and physically impaired is why he is mildly horrified by their actions. The fact that the old man grumbles and throws back roasts at his grandmother soothes his worries that they will be cuffed by the police tonight.

Chiasa pats the teenager's arm. "My dear Issei absolutely loves plants. What do you have in that greenhouse of yours?"

The old man immediately crosses his right arm across his chest. His left hand stays down, holding unto a cane. He leans on that side slightly and his whole body seems to tilt, Issei notices. "I'm not selling my plants."

"I'm not selling my mushrooms and yet I see them in your pantry." She raises her hand and her index points at his nose menacingly. "Don't you dare say it's different."

The old man scrunches his nose. His impressively bushy eyebrows form a line over his wrinkled eyes. He sniffs.

The eldest Hyoudou is undeterred. "Have a heart, Koji! My boy is thirteen and he wants to learn. I know you don't get much help from your sons when they're around. He will come and help you!"

 _Wait what?_

"He will come help…" the old man repeats and there's a dangerous light in his eyes that speaks of slavery.

Ah, yes. His grandmother is selling his time now. Without asking first if he was comfortable with it or not. What about being lazy and a good son, staying at home and learning recipes?

(The argument that he can do both things at the same time is not acknowledged. Issei seeks laziness and pajamas days with all his soul.)

His grandma fishes in her bag and takes out the jar of peach jam.

Koji glances at the glistening glass jar full of an orange delicacy. He makes a face between love and disgust. It looks nasty, yet Issei observes. It seems he has a lot to learn from his grandmother. "Only one plant. And I want him in my garden every Monday and Friday morning, before school."

Chiasa jiggles the jar around. "Two plants and one morning."

"Don't play tough. I just need a bit of help moving things around. My back isn't what it used to be," Koji massages his back with a grumble. His cane hits the ground heavily as he shuffles.

Issei sees a bare hallway behind him and nothing else.

Hyoudou Chiasa doesn't relent. She glares.

Koji shrivels. Even Issei freaking scrambles to the side to not meet her gaze heads on.

The older human in the room lets his bushy eyebrows separate. He smacks his lips. "Okay, okay. One morning and two plants. You know the way."

The old lady hands the old man the jar of jam. She lets go when he tugs at her hand and he all but curls around it. It looks like the villainous character in that popular franchise who is obsessed with a ring he calls his Precious. Pale, shriveled and always seeking and desiring his precious Precious.

Koji is neither pale nor shriveled, but the two fit nonetheless.

The old man pops the jar open with a good twist. He sniffs and yes, his eyes glaze over.

Chiasa drags her grandson by the shoulder through the house before he can see more disturbing scenes. The last image he has of the man he will see once a week is him eating a spoonful of jam with a toothy grin. It looks like an addict getting his fix.

Issei is not sure he wants to try his grandmother's jams anymore. It appears to be a bit too dangerous for his health.

They end up in a hallway that leads them to a glass door. That door they pass without missing a beat.

Issei blinks. He breathes in.

His eyes take a moment to acclimatize themselves to the artificial light. His skin is prickled by the sudden warmth that envelops him. He is yet against surrounded by flowers. A jungle tended to by a man whose steady hands made it into a paradise of sort. The facts that he struggles to walk straight and is addicted to peach jam make it even more impressive to gaze at. His kingdom sprawls in all directions, somehow arranged by colours and types, yet it retains a certain wildness. These plants… don't dance nor talk. Tame flowers, in a way. Tame is strangely boring.

The teen scans the crowd of flowers and plants. He overlooks the wall of cactus without a second thought. He isn't going to offer a thorny, sad plant to his new ally. It would be insulting and he is not seeking to be pricked to death. Plus, transporting the pot to Persephone's little abode would be difficult. Their thorns should stay in place and certainly planted in his flesh.

He wanders in an alley, long leaves and flowers brushing against his coat constantly. He abandons all hopes of avoiding their touches and simply twirls on his toes, searching for the 'Christmas Rose' and the 'Quince' they looked at on the Internet. His eyes can barely see over some of the lush flora his gaze encounters.

His grandmother trails after him, checking each side slowly after him in case his sight missed what they desire.

"If he doesn't have what your mother suggested, just take two random pots." She bends over pink camellias. "These look good."

"You're not taking my camellias, you witch." Koji appears in their alley, his limp and cane ever present. The jar of peach jelly is cradled in his free arm.

Chiasa makes a face. She tilts the head of a rosy camellia gently, challenging her friend with wiggling eyebrows. "You didn't specify that when we struck the deal."

"And I'm specifying now." He scoffs. "If you had brought your plum jam, it might have been a different story."

The youngest person in the greenhouse steps forward before the conversation takes a strange turn again. He has seen and heard enough for a day. "Do you have," he mentally checks his list of acceptable gifts for a goddess in a pot, "a Quince? And Christmas Roses?"

Koji pokes his cheek with his tongue. It makes a bulge in his weathered face. "I could give you… Do you want a bonsai Quince or a shrub?"

 _I have no idea._ "It's for outside…?" Issei feels his good ol' friend the flush appears on his face. Gotta love being embarrassed.

The old man does not comment on the fact that a boy who is supposed to love gardening cannot answer a rather simple question. "I see. My Quince is outside; I will give you a few clippings. As for the Helleborus, it has been years since I last planted some. They're too much work. And poisonous to boot."

"Ah." Normal flora can be dangerous too. He will keep that in mind next time he angers his mother. She wouldn't poison him, but he knows her enough to know she might list all the ways he can die frothing at the mouth because of a mushroom.

(He remembers how she made him _fear_ Australia and the emus living down there. How the freak did they win a war against a military force? He is never going to visit that country ruled by kick-boxing kangaroos and spiders as big as a coconut. No, nein, nope, not happening.

Issei ignores with vigor the draconic chuckle that rings in his ears.)

A glimpse of lavender catches his eyes. He steps towards the end of alley, where the wall of deadly cacti starts. He bends over long, springy pillar of lavender flowers. The towers stand, made of small blooming flowers that are entwined all the way to the top. Their tips tickle his skin. He basks in a smell he cannot really name.

The tap of a cane follows him. "Ah, you have good eyes. My snapdragons are beautiful this year, eh."

The student in gardening rights himself. "Snapdragons?"

"Nice name, eh. Bumblebees love them to bits. Tetsuya makes a delicious honey with my snapdragons," Koji declares with a proud smile.

 _Fitting name indeed,_ the wielder of the Boosted Gear muses.

Chiasa humphs in Koji's back. "Tetsuya makes honey with all our flowers, not just yours."

Koji hits the ground with his cane. "Shush, woman."

Issei has made a decision. "I'm going to take the clippings and a pot of Snapdragons."

The older man smiles. It shows off a lot of teeth that aren't white. "You know how to take care of them?"

His hesitant silence leads to the gardener sitting down with a laugh and launching a dizzying lecture on fertilizer, sun exposition, blooms, mushrooms and the quality of the soil. His newly appointed apprentice feels obligated to take notes and asks questions when he isn't sure he understand. The information might interest his mother, after all. He doesn't care much for flowers or plants, but he might need the information himself if Ddraig is right and he receives power over nature. He probably won't be able to just snap his fingers and have flora sprouts from the ground, strong and healthy. Magic can't be that convenient.

His grandmother, on the other hand, looks bored out of her mind. She pokes cactus' thorns to pass the time. Koji yelps at her from time to time and she shots back comments about his back and poor health. It's all very entertaining as long as Issei doesn't get embroiled in the elderly bickering.

"Enough, enough. There's a limit to how much you can teach him in one evening," Chiasa finally raises her hands in defeat when she has messed with the entire wall of cacti.

Issei's relief at finally being released from his teacher's clutch is a bit cooled when he sees that he will indeed be the one to carry everything –the clippings and the snapdragon- up the hill.

They leave Koji with a promise of being punctual on Issei's side and a promise of pain on Chiasa's side if 'you dare bully my grandson'. Both men refuse to comment on that. The youngest even avoids musing about how his dear spitefire of a grandmother would punish the man who kindly let them rob his beloved garden.

Once the duo is outside, enveloped in the dim light of the stars, Issei breathes happily in the biting cold. He craddles his hard-earned snapdragons and Quince closer. It was too warm to wear a coat in that green house. The elder trots forward and the younger one jogs to march next to her. "Why do you want me to come help him?"

Chiasa doesn't slow down. Her braid snakes its way out of scarf thanks to her brisk steps. "Ise, we have a Spring goddess in our backyard who requires plants. Want it or not, we will all have to learn about them to take care of them. Plus, you will be able to take a few plants when old Koji isn't watching."

Issei, yet again, finds himself judging his paternal grandma's values. There's actual a bit of concern mixed in now. "That's stealing."

Chiasa laughs. "It's your salary. Everyone should get one when they work for somebody else."

 _There's something wrong here._ The teen cannot pinpoint the problem, but dang, his grandmother makes a lot of sense- she is definitely a hoodlum. And wrong. Yes. He mustn't fall in her pit of sins.

At the fork at the foot of the hill leading to their home, Issei turns without a word to go meet the goddess. The faster he gets there, the better. Persephone awaits him. His bed also awaits him and Issei yearns for it.

A hand tugs his coat backward. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To see Persephone." He adjusts his grip on the pot and the clippings. "I have the plants. The clippings won't live long if they aren't planted soon."

Chiasa shakes her head. "You will need a shovel, dear."

"Ah, that's true." Issei stumbles back to her side. His bed becomes a far away fantasy. _I will also need a lamp._ The woods are menacingly dark and he doesn't fancy falling face first and squishing his precious gifts while travelling down there.

"Issei, what do you do in your spare time?"

The teen blinks. That's a strange question. He needs a moment to recall what he did in his spare time, besides scheming his way out of a beating at school or making money. "I read mangas…"

That sounds so much like a question, he feels obligated to cringe.

Chiasa finally decides to slow down and walk at a speed that doesn't make his legs ache. "No sports? I thought you liked running? You won a medal two years ago in the district competition."

Issei hums. He did enjoy burning his lungs, once upon a time. It did help running away from Tomou and his goons. "I was better at high jump."

(Until he crashed against a small wall while he was running away and got kicked in the ribs an alarming amount of times. He still went home with a smile on his lips. He had to keep it up. Otherwise he would have cried a river about his life and his mother wouldn't have been able to understand.)

Chiasa chuckles at his comment. "I know. None of the other kids could do the 1.50 meter. It was impressive to see."

He puffs up his chest without meaning to. What a great accomplishment it had been. Except no one who counted in his life had been there to watch it. Wait. Wait. _How do you know that?_ "You were there?"

His grandmother stares at him. The dim light of the full moon illuminates her shining white hair when she nods slowly. "Yes. I watched you."

Issei squarely walks into a hole. His ankle burns. He doesn't care. "I didn't know."

"That's because I didn't tell your parents I was there. Ichika absolutely wanted to see you, so I took a really nice video of you doing the high jump. The photos I took of you while you were running are blurry, however. My camera was not the best," Chiasa explains softly. Her voice loses its rough edge as it dims into a whisper.

Her grandson licks his dry lips. His tongue finds a bump in his inner bottom lip and his teeth immediately start gnawing his flesh. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to disturb you. I've been told athletes need to focus all their energy on what they're doing," Chiasa nods wisely and it would sound very convincing and wise if it didn't sound so fake. She isn't one to appear sensible. She isn't one to care about weird customs.

She is the type who hugs the breath out of him, whether he wants it or not. He learnt to love it.

"That day." Issei searches for the right word to use to talk about the piece of shit who's part of his family tree. He settles for his name. "Gorou wasn't there. He didn't come to the competition."

"Why?"

The teen shrugs. "I don't know. He said he would be there and then he didn't show up. Mom worked that day so she wasn't there either."

The elder woman looks in the distance. The light of the frontdoor shines faintly in the woods. "It seems I really didn't raise him right."

 _Would I be heartless if I agree?_

His throat clenches on air. "I would have been happy to see you and grandpa," he admits softly.

His grandmother shakes her head and his heart skips a beat. "Your grandfather wasn't with me. He was in the hospital. His heart had acted up."

Relieved and horrified to be relieved -because who gets happy about learning their grandfather was in the hospital and that's why he couldn't show up, it's not that he doesn't care-, Issei does not know what expression to show. "I'm sorry."

A gloved hand pats his arm. "Don't be. It's not your fault."

"Did grandpa like the video you took of me?" _Issei, Issei, why are you asking this, you know he loved you, you know this affecting her, why are you so selfish?_

Chiasa laughs and his malevolent thoughts crumble at his feet. "He said he had never seen someone jump as well as you did. He showed it to all the nurses he could catch."

"That sounds like him," Issei chuckles. His feet feel light. The stars shine brightly.

Again, her gloved hand touches his forearm. They come to a halt. This time, it stays in place and squeezes gently. "He was proud of you. I am too."

Issei nods.

He doesn't comment on the soft sniffs he hears coming from her side. She doesn't comment on the ones coming from his side. He huddles closer. She rests her head against his shoulder. He puts a trembling hand on her shaking shoulder.

"I should have come to see you during your competition," she suddenly mutters against his coat. "We could have taken a picture together… that would have made him so happy. I could have cheered for you from the families' benches. We could have gone to see him together. You could have had fun playing go with him."

He brings her in his embrace with his free hand.

It's awkward and he wishes his mother was there to help him, but he doesn't chicken out and successfully pats her head with all the gentleness he can muster. He channels every bit of affection he holds in his heart. "It's okay, Grandma. You were there."

She muffles a sob against his coat. The Quince clippings are squished but Issei doesn't care anymore about the bloody plants. They can go to Hell to meet the husband of Persephone and spill everything about her for all he cares.

His grandmother is crying. The world is walking on its head. It's not right and Issei will cuddle her if he has to.

"It's okay, it's okay," he whispers. He has so many words stuck in his throat and he doesn't know how to voice them. His hand pats her hat gently. "You did well, grandma. It's okay."

Chiasa suddenly steps back. She sniffs. "Gorou and us… it was complicated. Your father… my son has his temper and so did we. I wish it wouldn't have affected you so much."

"It's okay. I wasn't the only one who suffered." That was not the best thing to say, Issei realizes. Especially when he notices the tear tracks on her face. "It's all in the past. We're here now. We're family and we look after each other, no matter what."

He squeezes her hand with all the affection he has so much trouble to voice into something his loved ones can make sense of. "I forgive you. And I hope you forgive me for all the things I put you through."

He did so many things that were just downright shitty to his important family members. He lied, he schemed, he disappeared, he threatened… the list is growing longer the more he thinks about it. He is no better than Gorou.

"You silly bun." She sniffs one last time. One moment later, she flicks his nose through her glove. It doesn't hurt. It feels more like a gentle boop. "I should be the one saying that."

"I believe I need to explain a few things to you." She steps forwards and beckons him with her hand. "Come on, we will walk while we walk. Let's not make your mother wait more than necessary."

Issei grasps the plants with both hands. He walks behind her, drying the water that came out of his eyes unwillingly.

She clears her throat. "Gorou wanted to be an artist."

The teen clenches his jaw. That's new. Where will this story lead them? He wants to know very little about the man who abandoned him and his mother. It better not be a story that will soften him. He wants a heart made of freaking granite when it comes to the man.

"He hated this town because it was too small and he wouldn't be able to live thanks to his craft here. He painted sceneries and people. People liked it well enough, but they weren't going to pay fortunes for it. And Gorou wanted to be famous and rich and everything a young man wants to be."

Sounds ambitious. Sounds like his degenerate of a father alright.

Chiasa's braid dances with a sudden gust of wind. She halts to let her grandson joins her. They walk side by side. "Ichika and I couldn't pay for his entrance in an art academy and he wasn't talented enough to get a scholarship."

Her head moves from side to side. Issei watches and listens intently. "In the end, we tried to convince him to try something else. We helped him get a certificate in accounting."

That explains his current job. The young Hayashi had never seen the man hold a brush in his 13 years of existence. He was probably really shitty.

"I don't think he ever forgave us," Chiasa finishes softly.

Issei glares at an imaginary picture of Gorou. He also stabs him. In his mind. He wouldn't exactly spit at the idea if he could do in reality too, though. "It wasn't your fault."

"For him, it was. He hated the fact that we couldn't fund his dream. It was our fault we weren't rich enough and needed him to have a stable income because we didn't want to let him live with us forever."

 _So he sponged off his parents and blamed them for being a useless NEET? Impressive._ Issei, needless to say, stabs his grandmother's son harder in his mind.

Chiasa hesitates, mouth not quite closed nor open. She stares at her only family member left in the world who cares a bit about family and love. She sighs and whispers. "For my son, his marriage was also our fault."

Issei doesn't quite believe his ears, because if they heard right, he has to commit murder. The question is not why, the question is how. Does he need a rope or a bat? What would hurt more? What would put the fear of a scorned son in his eyes as he bleeds out?

"What do you mean?" Issei snarls. He has to make sure. He has to make sure because he needs to start planning right away if she confirms what he believes she did whisper.

Chiasa sighs. Her hand flies to her braid and she holds it still as the wind howls around them. The gust bites and hurts. "Your mother was an artist when they met. And contrary to him, she had a reputation and contracts. Ichika thought she was out of his league and said so. Gorou took it as personal challenge and your mother and he were married two years later."

"Does my mom know?" _that her husband married her out of spite?_

Chiasa throws her head back and stares at the sky. A beat. Two beats. Three beats. "She does."

The anger rules over his acts. A moment later, he kicks pebbles away with a roar. "And you ask that I _forgive_ him?"

A silence. A crow caws in the distance. "Issei…"

"No! No." He sobers up as quickly as he raged. "You're asking for too much and you know it."

He leaves her at the elbow of the road, stomping the gravel and his father's face. He will die. He will die, one way or another. A human being who behaves that lowly needs to be taught a lesson. A human whose values mean so little the leader of the Fallen Angels actually seem to be an okay guy when compared to him needs to learn. A lesson written in pain and blood. His forsook his own blood, abandoned a woman he promised to take care of, never loved the child he had with her-

Another thought assaults him, surfacing from his scrambling memories. He twists towards his grandmother. The harsh movement sends his free hand flying. Disaster and a slap on her face are missed by an inch. He isn't in control.

 _Calmdown, calmdown_

He dries whatever is coming out of his eyes. His hand is cold against his fuming forehead.

"I never saw either of them hold a brush." The boy ruffles his hair. He catches a few strands and pulls.

Chiasa smacks her lips, keen gaze never leaving his face. A grimace adorns her weathered face and she has never looked so old. "Gorou deals in absolute. We refused him something, so he decided to abandon it completely."

Dread dries his mouth. He swallows sand. "Why did _she_ stop? If she was successful, why did she?"

She holds his smoldering gaze. "I don't know. You will have to ask Hikari."

Issei covers his eyes. The hand who cradles the pot and the clippings crush them against his torso. It brings no relief to the crushing realization that his family life is beyond repairs. Why is everything so fucked? He wanted one goddamn moment of respite and fucking Persephone, Ddraig and his family decided to play with his entrails and haunt his every moment waking moment like it's a fun game. He doesn't enjoy this. He doesn't enjoy this at all. Can't they go hurt someone else for once? "…so miserable."

Chiasa steps into his bubble of misery. "Ise."

He presses his hand against his skin harder and wonders if he could rip it off with his claw.

Freezing cold gloves touch his face. They cover the little protection he put between himself and the rest of the world. "Ise, look at me."

He shakes his head. He forces his eyes to stay closed.

One by one, she pries his fingers away from his face. His arm falls by his side. His gaze goes to the horizon, sets on seeing and hearing nothing.

She takes off her gloves. Her hands go back to his face and now, he is the one being embraced. She cradles his head gently. Unwillingly, his attention is caught and he listens when she murmurs as she pets his hair. "Your mother and I are here. Gorou is never going to come here. He will not hurt you ever again as long as I'm alive and standing in this land. We're here and we will make sure nothing like what happened in that Devil's land happens to you ever again. You're safe here."

He blinks. Somehow, his body decides nuzzling her hand is the best option of them all.

"I'm so tired," he admits. "I'm so tired, Grandma."

"I know, I know." Grandma pushes a few locks of his hair out of his visage. "You will rest here. No more bloody adventures to save the day. You will be safe here."

"As for being miserable," his grandma starts and there's a twinkle in her eyes that speaks of mischief, "Gorou did embody the tortured artist during his teenage years. When he was fifteen, he announced he was a vegetarian. During dinner. While he was eating pork cutlets."

Issei laughs against his grandma's glove. He can see she's trying to cheer him up and it's endearing. He will do his part. "He wasn't a vegetarian for long."

The corners of her lips quirk up into a wicked smile. "He wasn't."

Somehow, laughing about it makes Issei feels lighter. Hyoudou Gorou is on his blacklist, as usual. It is not a blacklist he will be able to leave in this lifetime, unlike Persephone. More than that, he wants to believe with all his heart that Hayashi Issei is going to be okay. All the Hayashis and the sole Hyoudou who's important will be okay.

"I still have some of his works," Chiasa says softly. Issei jolts in her embrace. "A few of Hikari's too."

He grabs her hand with a sudden fervor. "You will show me?"

"No need to ask, my dear." She takes his free hand in her own and tugs him forwards. "Let's go. Hikari is waiting."

* * *

Happy New Year!

(We're still in January, I can legally wish you happiness for the next 365 days.)

I blame my reviewers for the length of this upload. 11k of pure love and emotions just for you, my dear readers. You are all sweethearts and I would definitely destroy my black doing blackflips for your words, but I would do it anyway if I ever see any of you. Shoutout to surya25addanki for being such a supportive reviewer (the madlad/madlass left a review on almost every chapter). Amatsumi, Cadelorbe12 and Five-Star Marth are also regulars around here. Thanks to Rosso Angelo and Galaghiel for the longest reviews I've ever seen (Galaghiel, if you ever read this, just know this: if you wanna talk about the story or anything, hit me up.). I could do so many more shoutouts about so many people who gave me ideas or just made me feel like this was worth writing, but I wouldn't be done anytime soon.

So, there! Shoutout to all the madlads and madlasses who left a review!

You are the best.

I wish you the best year ever.

My muse told me to slow down (I began writing the next chapter before I even started this one, eheh), but I made no promise. I had to cut this chapter in half when I was halfway done (I was already at 7k, can you imagine? This chapter could have had been as long as my list of embarrassing moments.), so I do have a lot of things already prepared for the next chapter.

With all my love!

(30/01/2020)


	17. A Painter's Point of View

The hands of the clock advance slowly, devouring time and never giving it back. And yet, neither her son nor her mother-in-law is under the roof that shelters them all.

Seconds tick by.

Hikari's gaze wavers between the clock and it's never ending round and the laptop she labouredly placed on her tights.

There, in a document, she copypasted all the information she could find on Greek gods and goddesses, Persephone and her husband being the center of it all.

Persephone, goddess of Spring. Persephone, daughter of Demeter and Zeus, king of gods. Persephone, queen of the realm of the Dead.

Why and how did she find herself in a pot of ashes? Why was she in the urn that bears her name? Why is she in an urn at all? Why does that goddess need her baby boy?

Many questions. More will come.

The Internet offers no answers. It offered none either when she dared to write Sacred Gear into the search engine. She read pages after pages of results depicting cults, fast cars and a worrying number of stories about chuunibyou youths getting into all sorts of shenanigans, Naruto-styled training and an array of women who inexplicably fall in love with a cardboard the authors dare to call a main character. How tasteless.

Hikari scrolls down. Fortunately, the vast majority of the pictures used to represent Persephone are a pleasant surprise. They are agreeable to her aesthetic flair.

The Internet does have a well of interesting pictures and arts about the Greek gods. Hikari would be tempted to foray into that pit if her baby boy's security wasn't on the line.

Realistic and cartoonish fanarts that make her heart pity her own decaying skills will have to wait for another day.

She focuses on older paintings and sculptures instead. Depending on the era and the country, they hide a world of symbolisms and meaning. Scraps of classes she listened to while seeping tea bubble to the surface as her gaze rakes over the images. Hoarse voices and the scent of her favorite ink swirl in her head. The infamous pomegranate seems to be Persephone's most faithful companion in most classic depictions of the goddess.

Pomegranates are symbolic of funerary rituals, beliefs, and death. Considering Hades is the lord of the Dead, its presence is rather understandable. The implied meaning that marriage is a sort of funeral is depressing, however.

Ivy appears by the kidnapped goddess often too. Ivy spray, a symbol of clinging memory. Ivy, a poisonous plant.

On an old vase, black lines form a young Persephone, neck craned into a submissive stance as she faces Hades. The god is offering the fruit that will seal their fate. A notable detail is that Persephone, while her entire body is twisted into a meek position, stares squarely at her future husband, meeting his gaze head on.

Hikari saves the image and deposits it on her document. There's something about this picture that ticks her off, something she can't pinpoint yet.

She rubs her eyes gently. The blue light emitted by the screen does not please them. She reads and reads, but the bright screen and information take a moment to be filtered by her brain into something she can understand.

Her mind is a field after a long winter, covered in snow and ice. The weather is warming, the surface is liquefying, but the core remains cold.

The metaphor makes her twitch. Calendar-wise, spring is still far away. Distance-wise, it is all too close.

Hikari sighs. Numbness creeps along her limbs; she slept for weeks, Issei said. Weeks and weeks of pure comatose sleep, lost between reality and nothingness, gorged by medication and loneliness. Before that, Issei said she was awake. Strangely enough, she remembers better the time she was asleep than the moments where she was supposed to be awake.

The smells, in particular, strike her throat at the worst moments. She can barely breathe when Chiasa does the dishes; the acrid chemicals taste that lingers in her mouth reminds her of a tough bed and torment. She waited. She waited and waited and waited in silence and torpor for something-

And Issei came.

The wait has ended. The things that took ahold of her mind as she sank into madness are not gone.

Her baby boy did not get into the details about her sickness and the tumor in her head. She knows her condition was far worse than what he or her mother-in-law acknowledge. She stood on the line between life and death. The memories are foggy, but she can summon them to the surface if she concentrates on them long enough. Doctors slowly talked about the impossibility of surviving. Social workers talked about foster care for her child. Friends talked about funerals.

Her husband spoke of divorce.

And Issei…. Issei rambled about the way the clouds could never truly hide the sun for its light passed through them anyway. He would go on and on about tiny details, funny stories, strange happenings, everything and anything to animate their cold, desolate apartment.

As of now, Issei barely speaks at all. He watches and mumbles. Where is the child who uses to chatter excitedly about anything and everything? He barely explained how, exactly, he used the miraculous tears of a Devil to heal her or how he got the tears to start with.

("I traded with a Devil. I gave him a Glorygold I found in the Forest in exchange for his tears. They can heal anything, like a Phoenix's tears."

Hikari is torn between wanting to know why the little flower is so precious and how the Devil got himself to cry - did her baby had to say mean things or beat up the Devil to help him cry? That would be beyond terrible. She didn't raise her sunshine to be a mean little thing. That Devil will have to answer for his actions if he put Ise in a bad position or forced him to do evil deeds.)

No, her Ise didn't explain much, but he was so, so tired when he told them about what happened while he was all alone. Questions could wait. His well-being couldn't.

In a way, she knows all she needs to know. His thin lips and deep seated eyes spoke for him.

Stress and sadness left a visible mark on his face.

It's around his nose, creating deep lines when he frowns. It's around his eyes, sunk into their sockets, creating an eternal shadow over his soft caramel gaze.

When he doesn't speak, he spends his time biting his lips and staring at her as if a gust of wind could steal her away from his sight.

 _No, no, she is not that feeble, darling._

She wiggles her toes. They respond accordingly. She wiggles her fingers. They move, which is good, but they are stiff, which is not the best for painting-

Hikari pushes the thought away with a click on her mouse. Another website broadens her horizons on the quality of digital art and the poor writing skills of obscure bloggers. The Internet is wonderful, but it seems a good chunk of the information repeats itself everywhere while details are hard to find and harder to understand.

She knows Persephone is Hades' wife. She knows she was called Kore before her kidnapping/willing departure from the human realm (sources don't agree on what made her leave her mother's side.). Now, it would be beyond perfect if one website could explain in details what her domains of power are and how they manifest in the real world.

The Internet isn't that convenient, even for a desperate mother in need of answers.

She adds another paragraph on the document about Zeus, Persephone's father. King of the gods and enemy of women folks. The goddess' whole family seems to have interesting relationships with humans. Changing their forsaken lovers into trees, turning young girls and sisters into animals and still having relations with them, splitting humans into two because of fear… the list is growing longer every time she clicks on a new link. How homely.

(She closes the laptop and puts it aside before she books one-way flights for Antarctica. There shouldn't be any gods in these parts, neh…?)

Hikari lets her head fall back into the soft leather of the couch.

Her wheelchair winks at her from the other side of the couch.

She wiggles her toes again.

A devilishly tempting idea makes her squirm on the couch until her two feet are flat against the floor, exactly in the right position for her to make her idea a reality.

Her knees move next. They flex normally. No pain. No stiffness.

Her waist bends forwards in a controlled movement.

Her hand reaches for the coffee table.

Back, waist, knees, feet.

Her muscles and bones move accordingly to her will.

Hayashi Hikari is standing upright.

 _Well, well, well. That's an interesting development._

She smiles. Time to floor her son.

She peers into darkness through the window of the living room. It gives her a prime view on the desolate land her mother-in-law calls a garden. She surveys the dip where the garden beaten path twists down the hill.

A bag lies by her feet. She toys it with her foot and feels familiar weights. Everything is ready.

The Glorygold shines softly as it dances on her lap. Its glow briefly disappears ever so often. Its gentle warmth seeps through its roots into her, soothing the aches that run through her worn-out muscles. Her body is tired, but she is not. She has one more task to achieve tonight. She tugs her coat's zipper to her chin and smiles.

Freedom of movement is such a precious thing.

She relaxes into her seat and awaits their return. Issei will have a pleasant surprise when he comes back. She can already imagine his caramel eyes widening. He will surely make that little face he always pulls when he is flabbergasted. His mouth hands opens and his visage slackens into something purely silly and adorable-

Her ears pick up their voices before her eyes have the time to acclimate themselves to the night.

Chiasa speaks loudly. She always does.

Issei's voice is almost inaudible. Hikari knows he is with his grandmother because the Hyoudou matriarch hasn't developed dementia yet nor does she usually speak to herself.

Hikari leaves her seat with a light jolt of her knees. She moves slowly towards the entrance of the house, dragging the bag along. She would like to walk faster, but her legs weight her down. Her body refuses to advance faster. She can only flirt with an unknown limit, hoping she will not go too far into overdrive.

(Hope is all she has, beside her son, now. Her son didn't have her when he went through Hell. She can do this.)

The Glorygold warms her hand.

Chiasa muffles a cough.

Hikari puts her head against the cold door and listens.

Chiasa clears her throat. It can only be her who makes such a noise sound threatening. A braided beast clears her throat and it is nothing but a growl. "Don't you think bringing these to the brook could wait? It's dark outside."

Hikari agrees with her mother-in-law. "Your mother is probably worried. She will wait for you and go to sleep late. That's no good. We should go tomorrow."

If it wasn't an excuse to make Issei stay home tonight because Chiasa is clearly worried for him, Hikari would feel touched by the older woman's care. Under her stubborn attempt to sound as emotionless as possible, there is a beating heart and it loves the little boy named Issei-

Scratch that. Hikari is touched.

Her son, sadly, doesn't agree with them.

Her boy shuffles from one foot to the other. She hears the heavy jolts of his boots hitting the frozen ground. He sighs. "I will do it quickly. Don't worry."

That's her cue to act.

She turns the doorknob and pushes the door open.

Light floods a long rectangle of darkness and blinds her favorite duo. They blink in tandem.

Hikari smiles cheerily.

"Are we going now?" she pipes up.

Ise, as predicted, just gapes.

A heartbeat later, he grimaces, between awe and worry. "Mom…"

She crosses her arms. "I have everything we need. A shovel, a lamp and a backpack. You forgot yours to get the plants."

Issei closes his mouth with a smack. "I don't think-"

Hikari points at his nose. "I'm not letting my son meet a goddess alone again. You're way past your curfew anyway. I'm coming or there are no more trips tonight for you."

Her son glances at his paternal grandmother. Chiasa glances back.

Her mother-in-law eyes her clothes. Finally, she shrugs. "She is ready. Might as well go together and be done it with it already."

Issei glowers. "Grandma can come with me. You could stay-"

Hikari steps outside. She stuffs the bag in his hands. "You're not going to make your grandma walk all the way down again, Ise."

Chiasa snorts. The direct light from the house made her glower far more menacing than her son's. "Grandma decrees that grandma feels perfectly fine. It's a wonderful weather for a family trip! Let's go."

The wind that chills Hikari to the bone does not exactly compliment Chiasa's comment on the weather, but she is going to gratefully accept that attempt to get going and be done with all the worrying and scuffling to stop her from being a good mother.

Issei stays silent. He clenches his jaw into an unusual expression. Finally, he stuffs the bag she just handed him in his grandmother's hands.

He twirls on his heels and a second later, her Ise is on his knee, his arms outstretched behind his back.

"Hop on," he simply says.

 _Issei wants to carry me?_

Chiasa shifts. "Issei, if you fall, this will not end well for anyone."

He twists his neck and stares at Hikari. A shadow is casted over his face and clenched jaw. It is not casted by his chopped hair or the dim light of stars.

She knows this sight intimately. This shadow lurks and attaches itself to her little boy, leading him to long silences and haunted jostles.

He looks like he has come back home from a war.

"Mom. Please."

Hikari remembers a resolute face and set eyes that never backed down, even when social workers told him he would not be allowed to stay with her for much longer as she drowned in mindlessness. She sighs and allows what she cannot fight.

"Okay," she relents.

She deposits the Glorygold on the threshold of their house gently. Ever so gently, she circles her arms around his neck.

He grasps her legs and smoothly stands. It jolts her into a sitting position, snuggled against a back she doesn't recognize.

A ball of white fluffyness appears then, hopping around Issei's legs happily.

"Good evening, Bunny," her boy greets.

The bunny nuzzles his leg in return.

It's the cutest thing ever and Hikari wants to squeal and squish them both.

The bunny hops to their doorstep. It brushes its curious nose against the Glorygold. It opens its tiny mouth and ivory teeth flash.

"Bunny," a hoarse voice she barely identifies as his chides before the small animal can taste the dancing flower, "can you take the flower without eating it?"

The bunny pauses. It tilts its head at Issei then at the shining, tasty treat that was offered to its hungry eyes. It sneezes. Finally, it clamps its mouth shut with the cutest little regretful grumble.

Issei chuckles and the rumbles it causes course from his body to his mother's. Hikari shifts in his grasp. She switches between watching the teen who bears her son's name and the animal he speaks to so familiarly.

Her evening is already turning magical. She cannot phantom how their meeting with Persephone will be, since it seems magic has taken roots in her life without a moment's notice. How incredibly fantastic.

The fluffy white ball sniffs the flower. Hikari wants to comment on the impossibility of such a tiny thing being able to transport such a beautiful flower without eating it and really, _Ise, I'm the one who had a brain tumor and is supposed to be silly, don't steal my role_. Of course, the world is full of jokes. One fluid head bump later, the little rabbit stands with the Glorygold balanced between his long ears. It is doing it like a champ.

If someone ever asks Hikari to draw the silliest thing she has ever seen, that would be it. With her face in the background, mouth agape and eyes wide.

Chiasa raises her hands high in the sky. "Hold on, hold on. Why are we bringing the magical and very useful flower too? Please tell me it's not part of the offerings. We're keeping that. We are definitely keeping that."

Issei chuckles again. The uncontrolled movements of his shoulders jostle Hikari, but that's okay. His laughter is a source of joy. "We are keeping it. I just want to ask a question or two about it. The Glorygold doesn't look healthy."

Chiasa pinches her lips.

"She is the goddess of Spring. She might know how to care for it," Issei argues softly.

Chiasa smoothes her expression. "Okay. But if she asks for it, I will tell her she has to pay a hefty price. We are mercenaries in this family, boy."

The smile that adorns that roguish declaration is a bit too charismatic. It's also a bit too devilish. There's a reason Hikari always thought her mother-in-law was a dangerous one. The world is full of wolves in sheep's clothing. And then there's Chiasa, who is clearly a wolf that does not care for appearances.

After the shock leaves -and long after her son has handed her the lamp for she is the lampholdder, bringer of light and snacks, as he put it, and they started their walk down the hill-, she finds some of her rotting common sense in a dark alley of her brain. "Ise, where did you find that rabbit?"

Her magical son stalls over a rather wet patch of lichen. The forest around them is dark and full of shadows her lamp cannot destroy. It is dark and moody and full of monsters. Her boy shrugs and she is back to him and his warmth. "He found me. I think he is a supernatural bunny."

Chiasa, at the front, stops abruptly. She turns sharply on her heels. She is either squinting because the light is too bright or because she is trying to find her grandson's common sense in that big skull of his.

Apparently, she doesn't find what she searched for.

She points with a trembling arm at the animal that waddles its tiny butt in front of them, balancing a flower on its head like it's easy. "You _think_?"

Issei jostles his mother higher. Hikari props her head on his shoulder, watching the side of his face carefully. She sees the beginning of a weak smile appear on his visage. She feels him breathing in. She knows he has opened his mouth to talk before she hears his voice. "Yes…?"

The wind's scalding gusts slap them. The trees bend and their frozen bark hisses at the sudden movements. Hikari feels attacked.

The matriarch of the Hyoudou family sighs. Her shoulders sag into a movement of pure abandon Hikari has never seen before. She glances at the mother of her grandson and grimaces. "I think Issei inherited Ichika's wits."

Issei pulls a face. Hikari can see him pout from her perch, eyes scanning their surrounding in a familiar gesture. _He does that when he searches for a witty comeback._

He probably feels insulted on his grandfather's behalf, she muses. Her father-in-law wasn't exactly the sharpest crayon in the box but neither was he a complete idiot. Her husband, sadly, inherited the bad and none of the good.

"Grandpa always kicked my ass," Hikari reaches for his cheek before he can finish his sentence and pinches it wordlessly. _You know the rule, Ise. No bad words._

"Ow, ow, sowwyyyy, I'm sowwy," Issei pitifully whimpers.

Hikari lets go of his dry, cold skin and pats it tenderly. He needs some moisturizer in his life. "Good boy."

Issei sniffs.

Chiasa laughs.

 _"_ Grandpa always beat me at go and Risk," he mumbles indignantly.

The blinding light of the flashlight illuminates Chiasa's profile and her sorry expression.

"Yes," she comments slowly. She pats Issei's arm, then Hikari's hand. "I'm sorry; I really do think your boy is like this because of my Ichika."

"I can hear you, grandma," Issei grumbles.

Hikari laughs freely against his nape. "That's okay, I love him anyway."

He twists his neck and glowers at her. "Mom!"

Her laugh echoes in the valley. A warm breeze comes up, climbing the hill as they continue their descend. It caresses her face and reminds her of the smell of rain in summer. She can hear the gurgling stream they spoke off, except it sounds more like a waterfall than a trickle from where they are.

They all slowly fall into silence again. Chiasa takes her spot at the head of their little group, hopping alongside the bunny with her backpack full of plants. Hikari holds the lamp securely, illuminating the valley for their human eyes. Issei jostles her against his back, securely going down one step at the time where his grandmother ran and jumped.

"Shut up, Ddraig," her boy mumbles in the silence they fell into.

Her interest peaks. "Who are you talking to, Ise?"

"The dragon in my Sacred Gear," Issei awkwardly starts. Hikari finds the mythological turn fascinating. "He laughed at me."

"Good." Chiasa barks a laugh.

"That's not very nice," Hikari chimes in. She hides her smile behind her son's shoulder when Chiasa sends her a knowing glance.

Issei cringes. He stops and the mother and son watch as the elder of the group hop from one spot to another down the hill with flexibility neither possesses.

"Grandma, wait for us."

"We're almost at the brook, slowpoke," the elder woman shots back.

Issei grumbles. Nevertheless, Hikari feels he picks up the pace, moving forwards faster.

Stars twinkles over their heads now. She can't see her puffs of white breath anymore. The darkness that envelopes the weak electrical light they have brought along is almost welcoming. The forest isn't as dark and somber anymore. They can see the difference in temperature now in the way the earth is soft, in the way green has overtaken brown and grey, in the way she wants to paint it all to keep it as treasured memory.

She is exploring a whole new world.

Hikari feels… rejuvenated.

Hikari, yet again, is left to own thoughts as they approach the brook wordlessly. Her temperamental mother-in-law is back to munching on her words. Perhaps she recites mantras. Perhaps she is cursing Hikari to a long life of health and wealth, because Chiasa does things a bit backwards, even when she means well. Blessings are outdated. Curses are exactly her style.

Her son's shoulders are wider than she remembered them to be.

Vines moves under her.

Her son is muscled.

She stops fondling his shoulders when he twists his neck towards her. "Mom?"

"It's nothing," she awkwardly murmurs. She can't exactly admit she was testing the flexibility of his muscles and wondering if she could ask him to model for her. A physique so well proportioned should not go to waste. _Time to dress up pretty and strike a pose, darlin'._

"We're here," Chiasa calls.

The mother and son duo looks up and indeed, a sparse meadow, stuck between a cliff and a roaring river, lays before their eyes.

Hikari devours the sight. This is where the prologue of her adventures began. This is where her son's pinkie became a claw, long and sharp. This is where he leapt and met two Supernatural beings.

The little bunny waddles its way to the great tree that stands over the brook. The Glorygold dances on its head gently, making it a moving lantern of sort.

 _Make that three paranormal beings._

The way the Glorygold shines upon the tree that serves as a throne for the urn catches her attention. It is a soaked bridge between the two rapidly eroding banks. A poetic thought makes her rake her gaze over its ragged form, for it is also a bridge between their world and the Supernatural's.

The urn that sits in its twirling roots… looks like an urn. It's just a small grey pot. It contrasts its impossible green surroundings with a tame appearance. How strange that such a little thing is really the source of all that is happening, the cage of a great goddess.

She imagined grander things. The sweet scent of rain washed soil, the gentle breeze, the gurgling river… it thrills her heart.

Issei advances step by step in the meadow. A few feet from the great tree, he bends his knees slowly. She feels something hard and cold through her coat. A second later, her brain registers it as a rock. She lets her hands slide from his neck to her knees. Again, she feels vines move under her fingertips as they slide down against his coat.

"Stand back, okay. Don't come too close until I tell you otherwise."

Chiasa grumbles her acquiescence. She hands him her bag with a slight resistance.

He stares at his mother with his dark, dark eyes. She nods.

Her flashlight illuminates his back as her son leaves her side, bag full of plants and gardening tools hanging on his shoulder. She can see the urn clearly now with her lamp. It is surrounded by flowers that stand still. The light of her lamp casts immense shadows that dance around them, watching their mythical meeting.

Her hand quivers and the light thus flickers when the flowers around Persephone start to move.

Issei stops at the edge of dancing flowers. She can only see how he tilts his head, seemingly listening.

She mimics his movement, intent on hearing whatever Persephone tells her Ise. She will not let him do the talking and thinking alone.

The meadow does not echo with voices.

The river gurgles.

The goddess remains desperately silent and Issei remains desperately away from her.

The only sounds her ears can pick up, beside the obvious sounds coming from the forest and overwhelming her sense, are the brushes and whistling the fluid movements of the balancing flowers produce.

 _Wait…_

Hikari squints. If she focuses- there seems to be a voice in the midst of the noises. The voice flickers in and out of existence and she cannot catch it long enough to hear anything that it murmurs to her baby boy.

Her baby boy's back tenses.

Where is her boy who begged for more candies when they would go buy food together?

The bunny nudges her thigh. The Glorygold's leaves brush her coat. Hikari scratches its fluffy head mindlessly; gaze glued to her big little man. The pain that holds the joints of her fingers as its fortress recedes slowly.

She sighs contently. Issei won't be able to say she couldn't deal with the journey. She will be fine. Her body is almost too fine for it to be normal, but, again, it is not like she knows the specific effects of the tears of a Devil who shares attributes with phoenixes. Issei did inject her with a drop, he said.

Perhaps it is what keeps her from the cold. Perhaps the tumor in her brain really disappeared, disintegrated by something out of their human understanding.

Chiasa finds a seat on another round rock. She sweeps it with her gloves before she sits. "How long do you think it's going to take?"

Hikari flickers her gaze towards her too calm mother-in-law. Her calm has never been a good sign; it was either a sign of mischief or a sign of bad times. Tempests brew in silence, her father used to say. "I don't know"

Chiasa grimaces. "Do you hear anything?"

"I hear nothing," Issei agrees to something aloud then and Hikari feels obligated to finish her sentence on a positive note, "besides what he says."

"Oh. I thought I was going deaf." Chiasa juts her chin forwards. "He has no trouble hearing that goddess, it seems."

She feels something akin to pride swells in her chest. Her boy has always been bright, always telling her stories -he was adamant the parquet told him tales and he was just passing them to her- or understanding things at a ridiculous pace. He understands people, understood what they wanted and how they wanted it since he was a small boy who ran around the neighborhood to help the elderly couples and play with the younger kids who didn't have any playmates. Irina, his only girl friend back then, was the living proof of his understanding of people; he recounted how he had to befriend her so the other children would approve of her blond hair and accented Japanese. Irina repaid his kindness with a loyalty Hikari rarely saw in any other child, especially one who was older than her Issei. She stood by him even when her classmates mocked her for her 'little boyfriend'.

Issei was devastated when she left to go back to her home country.

Hikari wakes from her reverie with the feeling of a foreign object touching her hand. Chiasa gently rights her hand so her flashlight illuminates Issei and Persephone-in-an-urn.

Her son rasps something she can't pierce together.

He kneels and rips the zipper of his bag open. A few shaky shoveling later, a crumpled clipping of a flowering Quince is embraced by the crumbly soil. A Snapdragon meets the hollow hole her boy made a few moments later. He clumsily covers the holes. The clippings stand slanted, dangerously close to the ground.

She wants to call him and give him instructions because, darling, that's not how you do it. The poor plants are going to suffer a short death if they are left this way.

The flowers around the urn move into a dance.

Issei slowly turns. He faces his family and drags his feet out of the wet soil surrounding the goddess and her peculiar companions.

He wipes his muddy hands on his pants and smiles awkawdly. "It's done."

Chiasa snorts. "Koji didn't need to instruct you. They're doing just fine now," she observes.

Hikari tilts her body and follows her mother-in-law's gaze. What she sees takes her breath away. New roots plunge into the soil, greedily moving the quince and the snapdragons closer to the urn.

Issei nods as if it were the most normal thing he had ever seen and not the most awesome thing in the world. "She said it would suffice for now. We will probably need to bring her more later."

He bites his bottom lip and chews it like a toy. It's an old habit he picked up as a boy and never quite let go off. It's an old habit that pierces through all her recommendations and comments to remind him his lips are not food and shouldn't be treated as such when he is troubled. Anxious.

He is directing his worried gaze at her. "Mom- what do you think of her offer?"

"Hmm?" she is sketching the way the Snapdragons almost bow at the urn, small flowers blooming vibrantly.

"You didn't hear her voice?" he points behind him. His chin slackens and he gaps openly.

 _How strange_. That is not a look she recognizes on him. It is not pure surprise he expresses, but some sort of twisted shame. He should be proud of his skills, not ashamed.

Her hand leaves the rabbit's head she massaged till now. She pats her baby boy's hand. "No, I didn't hear a thing."

"Oh." He looks down and again, a strange shadow hovers between him and her. Magic stands between them, distancing them with each movement of the colorful flowers that dance around an urn.

He sighs tiredly. "Do you like plants?"

"That's a strange way to start an explanation, Issei, and you know it. What does Persephone want with Hikari?" Chiasa interjects impatiently.

Issei twists his mouth. "The goddess- Persephone. She wants to bless you too."

Hikari blinks. "What?"

He kneels at her feet. Her gaze finds his and they lock into each other. She feels her eyes dry yet does not break the contact. His dark, dark eyes are drawing her in. "She said you have a strong affinity with life and that you would do a better student than me to learn her craft."

"What is her craft?" she finds herself asking.

Issei breaks their eye contact. He twists his torso and tilts his head towards the dancing flowers. They make waves, never quite crashing unto the earth nor breaking apart from the movement. The Quince is blooming in a shade of red now.

Her not-so-little Issei nods a few times. "Miss Persephone says that she will allow you to understand and grow plants."

Chiasa makes a noise that resembles a laugh, except it is hysterical and high-pitched. "So, basically, Hikari is going to have a very good green thumb?"

She catches the way his eyebrow twitches.

"Yes…" he trails off.

Her little boy has never been a good liar.

He clamps his hands around hers. "You don't need to say yes. Miss Persephone really wanted me to ask you, but you really, really don't need to agree."

Her baby boy, who has seen so, so much, is asking her if she wants to jump into his world. It's a dark world, full of ruthless beings and monsters. It is where her son lives now.

It's terrifying.

But-

Her Issei's hands are warm.

If it's scary for her, she doesn't want to think how horrifying his own adventures and mishaps must have been. She does all the same. It's all she had thought about the entire time, since she woke up with a red-eyed son by her side.

He went through worse. And now, they're doing this together and Issei is not an idiot. She isn't either. A digital document, back home, is already updated in her mind. To survive in this strange wild wide world, they will need everything and some more. With this second chance at life, Hikari wants to live and see her boy live.

She will not be a wall-flower while others suffer and live. She has been one long enough during her marriage.

He is the same as before, nevertheless. That dark, dark world has not changed his soul or his kindness. Pale, worried, trying his best to be supportive and gentle. Just as he was when she sunk into illness and stupor over her crumbling life.

She wiggles a hand out of his grasp and put it atop their joined limbs. She squeezes gently.

Hikari _jumps_.

"Let's do this." She holds her hand out. Like a gentleman, he helps her to stand up.

They will light that strange world up and if they can't, they will adjust to the darkness. She is not letting her son walks this path alone. She is his mother and he is far from being an adult.

(Even if he were… Hikari would not let him fight his way into this mysterious world where teenagers have to kill to not be killed and Devils exist. Hikari believes in family bonds and love. She believes she would not forgive herself if anything happens to him and all she can show as her efforts was being a burden.)

The light of her lamp, left by Chiasa's side, casts their shadow on the flowers they approach. They look like big, thin monoliths ready to carve their path in the cheerful flower bed. She can barely see the urn in the mess of vegetation that embraces it now.

"What do we have to do?" she whispers softly.

He doesn't answer immediately. His face is shrouded in darkness and she wonders if she looks as terrifying as him.

(She hopes she does.)

"We have to bleed on the urn and- let's start with the bleeding part."

The flowers shiver. So does Hikari, but it is not fear that makes her heart skip beats. Excitement is an odd feeling encountered in strange places, it seems.

He kneels and slowly picks a petal from a pink flower –fuchsia? No, the petals are wrong. Rose? No thorns. Peonies? No, no, no. Her memory cannot name what her boy is playing with and it itches furiously. She should know. She should know this much, goddess involved or not.

He pricks his index with the petal. The flowers slide out of the way, encircling his foot as he steps forward in their bed.

Slowly, he drags his bleeding finger across the urn's surface.

Hikari shivers.

When he backpals with a hop to her side, she doesn't back down. When he pricks her finger for her with the strangely sharp petal –it is not supposed to be sharp, it's supposed to be soft and fragile-, she doesn't question it. When he holds her by the waist to walk into the vegetation surrounding a spring goddess, she doesn't wither. She drags her hand across the warm, smooth surface, letting her blood seeps freely from the minuscule wound Issei made with the most crestfallen face she had ever seen him sport.

Her blood stain mingles with her son's.

"Repeat after me," he whispers. His breath tickles his ears. She mouths along, burning the words he mutters in her mind. "Everytime you meet a Supernatural being and they ask for your name, you need to say this. Otherwise, they can use your name to make you do… unsightly stuff."

The sheer thought that she might meet another Supernatural jolts her heart. She lets out a long, shaky sigh.

"Do you remember everything?"

She nods. She turns towards the urn.

"I do not give you power over my name, I simply present it to you, goddess. My name is Hayashi Hikari and it is not yours."

The urn glows. The flowers dance.

Issei puffs out his chest. She mimics his gesture a heartbeat later. They're human. They're proud. They're fearful and fearless.

Issei starts. "We seek your Blessing, Persephone, goddess of Spring and keeper of souls."

Hikari sees the flowers dance. She hears a voice, distinct and clear, rasps out broken Japanese. "I thus bless you, Hikari Hayashi and Issei Hayashi."

A warm wind envelops her. The world becomes bright, bright, bright.

The voice rumbles in her ears and oh, her flesh quivers. "You, Hayashi Hikari, receive my eyes. May they guide you and teach you the ways of life.

There are no words, no languages, no sounds that can express what Hikari sees.

Each drop of sap that slowly drips or hikes through the columns of the trees glows and diffuses its shine throughout their fibers. Each root that twists and curls under the soil seeks blue clouds and drags them towards them.

The world has never been so colorful. It has never been so mysterious.

"You, Hayashi Issei, receive my hands. May you understand the growth of life, respect it and protect it."

She glances at her son and- she squints. The colors around him seem tame in comparison with the supernova his arms are. The light around him is attracted to his arms, curling and twisting in never-ending patterns across his skin.

Her boy is looking down at his bright sunny hands. She sees a gentle trick of crimson going from his left arm to his entire body, like the developing roots of a tree.

To her disappointment, her own hands do not shine and glow like the rest of the flora surrounding them. She is a frail candle when her son is a sun.

The sour taste of disappointment disappears when Issei offers her a toothy beam. It tells her he is also experiencing beautiful things.

* * *

09/03/2020

I'm going to so something a bit different for this note. I think it is time I answer some of your reviews in here (I do send private messages from time to time, but my crazy student life doesn't always allow for it.). Several of you raised the same point and I want to answer them for your enjoyment and mine ;)

 **Does this really belong in the adventure genre?**

Yes. I know the beginning can be considered as a slow, emotional one. That's how I wanted to unravel Issei's story and it is also what felt right. We start with something that is not fun at all; his mother is sick, his dad left and he has visions of things that cannot be real (ahahah). As the story moves forward, the adventure is going to pick up the pace. Actually, a main cast character is going to appear soon and then... the revolution will start. I'm a big fan of the butterfly effect.

 **What's up with Persephone?**

Eeheheheh. I can't answer this.

 **What about the bow?**

Issei used it once _in front of your eyes_. It is not a Sacred Gear and Issei... stumbled on it during the chapter I so evilly took out of the plot (go check out chapter 8 if you're confused by my comment). As I said before, I do enjoy the butterfly effect. Do not worry, my dears. I will give you something to enjoy with the bow.

 **Is Issei going to train _at some point_?**

Yes. Next chapter, actually.

 **Ddraig/Issei/Hikari/Grandma are super nice to read about!**

Awwww. My cold little heart that never updates on time is warmed by your reviews, guys. I really, really wanted to nail Ddraig's character. I'm glad y'all like his snark and grumpiness.

 **Where is my backflip** **for my review?**

My doctor begged me to stop doing so many backflips. It's bad for my health, he said. I don't believe him.

... just kidding. You just have to believe I do a backflip in my heart every time you review, dear readers.


	18. Flowery Interlude

Earthworms are cute creatures. Their little hardworking twisting bodies bring life to the earth with the tunnels they painstakingly create as they eat decomposing matters. Their work is of upmost importance to nature and life itself and she never forgets to thank them when they pass by her.

They bow in return, the cute little things.

The things wiggling back and forth, waving at her from their bloody hold in the boy's skull, are not cute. They are downright horrifying. They dare to take on her bellowed pink worms' appearance and Persephone is offended on their behalf.

They wave again, mockingly.

Persephone flickers her attention to the crowd of humans and supernatural beings that stands by her meadow. They are a far more pleasant sight compared to the despicable monsters prowling inside his mind. "Bring me your mother," she repeats.

"I will not," the sulfuric boy grits out. His teeth are barred for everyone to see and oh, he is ugly.

A breeze brings her his scent. It has barely changed since their first meeting, sulfur fuming under the surface of his skin. He is a volcano ready to explode and engulfs the world in a darkness so impenetrable nature itself will shrivel and enter the Kingdom of the Dead.

The worms twist in his head.

Persephone tuts. The flowers, confused by the sound, do not translate it but still their dance. She chanced upon such abominably horrendous souls when she was walking the halls of Tartarus. She had not, however, thought possible to find a soul so close to extinguishing itself in the Human realm.

"It is not your choice to make," she comments. "You have heard my decree. Now go forth."

"It is not the deal we made!" he hisses. He looks sharply behind him a moment later, surveying the people who accompanied him to her pit.

They stare back, so humanly confused by the divine exchange they're witnessing. The Moon Rabbit, lying lazily by their feet, does not flinch when he feels her gaze on him. He remains where he is, black irises trained on the boy she chose. A magnificently dying flower rests atop his head and she is perhaps jealous of the treasure he holds so calmly.

"Persephone!" the boy calls. His wild chopped hair floats eerily with a caress of the wind.

She spies the worms drilling in his brain, oozing dissonant thoughts and disenchantment. Spiders crawl in cracks and nooks, snatching thoughts and ideas as they pass to add more prizes to their walls of catches. They spin their web and entrap everything he is, turning beautiful things into obsessions and flaws into decorations he cannot hide. It is a wonder how they could survive when he emits so much toxicity. Yet, as he stares at his family, these terrible beasts retract out of sight, crawling deep inside, where the light cannot touch them.

"It is not the deal we made," Persephone concedes. "But your mother possesses something precious that you do not."

He squints. Thoughts boil in his head, mistrustful and angry. Worms twist into a vulgar dance. "What is it?"

"Courage." And a drop of pure magic circulating in her blood and mingling with her body, altering it. Persephone does not mention the way she shines and how her light almost made him look pretty for a second as he walked down the hills. He is beyond daft if he doesn't recognize how his mother affects him. "You reek of fear, Hayashi Issei."

He squares his jaw. A fire that reminds her of her Lord's blazing fury sets in his eyes. Sulfur engulfs them.

Her little flowery dancers halt their mad waltz. She stills her breath.

The scent he exudes reminds her far too much of... her lord's.

Hades.

She can't control herself.

Life strains every tunnels, every ways and paths it can find around her. It pours downs from the sky, solidifies from the air, climbs the roots of old trees. It answers her call for assistance. She drains everything she sees and yet… she suffocates.

The boy stills. His body is contracted in a futile effort to retain the magic passing through as it hears her summon. His throat visibly constricts violently and he whimpers. Tears well up in his eyes.

Tears.

A boy.

A mother.

A meadow.

Ah-

Persephone puffs at the cloud of fury and it is dispeled, leaving behind a fleeting weight. His emotions, like the worms and spiders that plague his mind, are heavy. They fight her hold, trying to take over her meadow with their toxicity. In the end, she is mightier and they die down, retracting into the boy.

She breathes again. Had she had a body, perhaps her reaction would have been disproportionate. She reasons her dampening mood with facts. He is just a boy. He is just a boy and she is the one acting like a child, now. How utterly improper. He is obviously not her Lord. He will not hurt her. He will not degrade a gift forcefully taken and easily thrown away.

The boy swallows his tears.

"Pardon me. A… memory overcame me," she whispers. Her flowers meekly move to translate her words.

Her little sprout is clearly torn. She is entirely regretful when she sees the worms digging into his mind and finding all the negative emotions they can find in his tiny skull. For such a small head, he holds a mountain worth of rocks and dirt his worms feast upon. This time, it is her doing that brought them out.

"Why do you want my mother?" He finally settles on a soft question.

Persephone hesitates. A strange emotion, biting at her resolve, lets the truth spills from her dancing servants. "You need her."

He relaxes his shoulders, hanging them low, and yes, he knows that as much as she does.

"My Blessing will consume your body. If I split it between the two of you, it will be beneficial for all of us. We live in a world where humans who hold Sacred Gears get entangled in strange business all too easily. "

His anger and fear retract into his heart. An emotion that tastes like autumn rain lands on her. Persephone doesn't know what the name of that emotion could be. Humans are overly complicated, sometimes. She decides it is a good emotion for her cause, although she holds no love for autumn and its glacial temperatures.

"I also might need your assistance to take care of my garden and I do not think humans possess the capacity to be at two places at the same time," she offers reason next. Reason can justify the worst decisions and make them look like sensible ones. Reason can also hide remorse and other rather bitter emotions.

"I just need to not be away," he scoffs. "It's not like I have other places to be."

Persephone laughs at his logic. "You are a silly one, Hayashi Issei."

Each attempt he makes to change her mind cements her decision.

She needs the woman.

His mind is plagued by worms of self-destruction that made enchanting him all too easy. She only had to pluck a thought from the grasp of a spider, an image of a fox-girl that festered in his mind, to lure him into doing her bidding. _Kunou, Kunou, Kunou…._ His spirit was flooded by her name, a mighty river roaring to life after the last debacle of winter's ice. She broke the fragile dam that protected his will. The banks of his reason were flooded by the memory of a little girl with a fluffy tail.

Her magic enticed him almost too easily.

He forgot pain, hunger, cold. His will was hers.

The trees around her throne her shiver as she remembers how good it was to feel through her ephemeral doll. Her spiritual form, strong as it may be, cannot fulfill her need for touch. A warm, breathing body yields such satisfying results.

A warm, breathing body is precious. To say she was shocked when he accepted to jump off a cliff so easily is an understatement. Humans, animals… they all have the drive to survive and live. His lack of desire proved worryingly useful for her. It is worryingly useful for any beings with a drop of magic at their disposition.

He has ugly monsters in his mind and they are tainting his soul.

Apollo would laugh and either heal or destroy him, depending on the mood his beloved twin left him in. Persephone herself is not a healer of the mind nor is she a benevolent being who gives without expecting something in return. Breathing humans never were her priorities.

Feasible it would be to enchant him into abandoning his mind and body.

Persephone rejects the thought.

She is not Hermes. Her brother's yearning for deceit and tricks has never attracted her. Her Lord's attachment to twisted wordplay and secretive loopholes sickened her as much as it amused her, once upon a time.

However, he is the Lord of the Dead and she is not.

Furthermore, the Dragon inhabiting the boy's soul is too sharp a being to be tricked by her. This outcome, she accepts.

Hayashi Issei crosses his arms. "I'm not silly. You're the one who is changing our deal now, Miss Persephone."

She lets the accusation slides over her. He is young and does not know better yet when it comes to insulting gods and goddesses. The boy is much like a young spout, tender and fragile. Had he been older and colder, she might have dabbled in a path that would have destroyed him. His body would have been hers and his soul, her Lord's.

The paths she might have taken are useless, for she has made a decision when she laid her eyes on the boy in the strange place where humans cremate the body of their loved ones. Persephone, Persephone, Persephone… tends to the young so they may break free from the soil and survive the last frost to bloom. Never has she strayed from her course, never will she stray.

And the flowers he brought her are more than pleasing to her senses.

"Go to your mother's side. Let her be the judge of my demand, Hayashi Issei," she orders calmly.

The boy balls his fists. She wonders if he will be stupid enough to argue more. Her mind is set and she is far more patient than he is. She has all the time in the world and he doesn't. In the end, he chooses to be bright.

He nods sharply. He offers her his back as he drags his feet back to his family.

Persephone takes this time to observe and mull over her thoughts. The boy, had he not been so unsightly to look at, would have received her Blessing alone. It was not an optimal solution, but she was ready to accommodate herself to his worms and spiders and overall tainted mental soil. Thankfully, the woman he calls mother appeared and her plans changed for the best. She can now split her Blessing in two and create two distinct powerful beings. There was no good in creating an overly powerful beast that could explode in her grasp. To think she was ready to settle for something that would destroy a young sprout on the long run… have her years in the Kingdom of the dead affected her this much?

"You don't need to say yes. Miss Persephone really wanted me to ask you, but you really, really don't need to agree," the boy assures softly.

Persephone turns her attention towards the Hayashi family.

 _Silly, silly boy._ His mother will say yes, because she is his mother, and oh, Persephone knows a bit about mothers and their insane drive to coddle their children and protect them from the world till the end of time.

Persephone watches how he acts around his mother, kind and tender as he explains to her that 'Miss Persephone' would like to bestow a green thumb upon her. Even his wording is gentle, offering –begging- her to look the other way and refuse. Gone is the sulfuric boy whose mind was set off by the most peculiar details. Gone is the wild beast, rabid and scared. Gone are the horrible worms and poisonous spiders.

Persephone knows she has made the right decision as she spies on their interactions. She didn't ask if his mother would accept her grace. She demanded she be part of the deal, or he would get nothing himself. The simple fact that he preferred to spit her blessing for his mother's well-being tells her a story that pleases her interest.

She has no need for a volcano.

This restrained fury, almost pacific front, however… could be useful. He could grow into a sturdy tree, with the right help.

She flickers her attention to the woman who sits so proudly at the side of her ugly boy. The woman stands between day and night, between fear and courage. She rests in twilight, oscillating between emotions that lift the darkness surrounding her progeny. Her body is weak, regenerating slowly thanks to a drop of magic circulating brightly in her veins, yet her mind is sturdier than the ancient bedrock that was purged from the rivers of the Kingdom of the Dead.

Shrouded in the darkness and sulfur her offspring emits, she is a beacon of light and pleasant dreams. The worms invading her son's head do not dare to show the point of their tail in front of such brilliance.

Hayashi Issei's mother nods resolutely, refusing to back down and thus, Persephone has found herself a new Blessed human. Her bravery is pure beauty to behold.

The woman and the boy walk side by side in her meadow, a duo of weakness and strength. They approach her throne of rocking roots slowly.

The calm front they form together, the spicy humus' scent they exude as their scents mesh together... is a pleasant reminder that her capacity to foretell is as sharp as ever.

"What do we have to do?" his mother whispers softly.

Hayashi Issei stares at her vessel questioningly, echoing mutely his mother's question.

Persephone hums. "Bleed on my vessel. For this task, one pink petal you must pluck and with it draw your blood you shall."

(Cryptic wording is not her favorite way of communicating, but traditions have to be respected.)

The worms wiggle in his skull and _blood, blood, blood, mom, mom, mom, no, no, no_ , they chant. Persephone would perhaps enjoy the song if it was so annoyingly repetitive. The boy has no talent in music, it seems.

"We have to bleed on the urn and- let's start with the bleeding part," the boy stumbles on his words.

He pricks his index with the petal she chose for their ritual. The flowers slide out of the way, encircling his foot as he steps forward in their bed.

Slowly, he drags his bleeding finger across her vessel's surface.

Sulfur engulfs her. Persephone reigns on her powers before she does something regrettable yet again. Her attention is caught by the way his brown hair shines softly, reflecting the cold rays of the Moon. Thankfully for their survival, the boy jumps back to his mother's side quickly. She watches as he pricks his mother's finger tenderly.

The flowers move in haste to arrange room for their human forms when they finally advance towards her.

Hayashi Hikari's blood mingles with her son.

Persephone breathes again. The spicy scent of fresh humus envelops her and isn't it quite the fitting environment for the seeds she will plant in them?

She hears the whispers he exchanges with his mother, warning her of supernatural beings and their suspicious ways. He is a cautious little thing, that Hayashi Issei. It's not a bad thing to be so, but she feels insulted nonetheless. She doesn't kill the people she blesses. The acrid smell that he produces does entice her to end the life of something that clearly yearns for death, but she has some self control. What festers in his mind, she cannot destroy. She will wait and let kinder hands do what she cannot.

(The boy might be oozing toxic wastes, as long as he remains at a good distance, she will hold herself accountable. How he is not dead yet is a mystery she doesn't wish to investigate. He better gets better soon… or else.)

His mother tilts her head to listen to his warning words. Her bald head is protected by a lovely ochre tuque. Clay is not compatible with all plants and sprout, but it is kind to the few that can encroach themselves in its malleable core. Her little sprout could indeed be a fragile chrysanthemum, to live so well by her side. The color that will adorn his bloom is the real question. Yellow for immortality and strength or white for death and despair? Only time will tell.

Persephone wishes she could tell her grandfather Chronos to make haste. She wants answers now.

Her sprout and his mother look at her vessel, their not-so private discussion finished.

His mother opens her mouth and breathes in deeply. "I do not give you power over my name, I simply present it to you, goddess. My name is Hayashi Hikari and it is not yours."

Hayashi Hikari is a quick learner. That's a pleasing sight. Her flowers dance.

Chrysanthemum boy puffs out his chest and his mother the clay mimics his gesture a brush of the wind later. Fearful and fearless. Almost beautiful.

"We seek your Blessing, Persephone, goddess of Spring and keeper of souls," Issei enunciates each syllable carefully.

Persephone smiles. Her flowers waltz.

"I thus bless you, Hikari Hayashi and Issei Hayashi."

The goddess pours life into them, caressing their veins and limbs, seeking life and finding it. It resonates with the outer world and its infinity.

First, she brushes Hayashi Hikari's eyes tenderly, slowly. She finds the channels life can travel through. She lets her own force opens the path. Life will know how to do the rest, how to dive into the freshly opened rivers. Nothing can stop an ocean. She opens the human woman to the world she sees, to the beauty and ugliness of magic and life. "You, Hayashi Hikari, receive my eyes. May they guide you and teach you the ways of life."

She watches the woman open her eyes for the very first time and marvel at her newfound sight. Humans are so limited and now she is so limitless.

The boy is second, a heartbeat later.

"You, Hayashi Issei, receive my hands. May you understand the growth of life, respect it and protect it."

She brushes his arms and is almost burned by the sheer energy the Dragon and the thing encroached in his right arm emit. She is not tender nor gentle with her next actions, for she cannot be. Life overtakes her completely as it pours itself into the boy, devoured by his ravenous body and unsatisfied beasts. For such a vermin riddled boy, he is very apt at attracting life.

Hayashi Issei trembles.

"Miss, what's happening?" he asks, voice quivering.

She hums. Her blessing blooms over his hands, coating the dreadful limb he sold to the Dragon with vivid colors. The limb another being inhabits twists and turns to accommodate her gift on his right arm.

The boy is infinitely prettier now. His pale skin compliments her design awfully well. It is a bit sad that he cannot see the masterpiece he sports.

"You are pretty now," she comments.

He scrunches his little brow adorably, like the little rabbit that hops to his feet. The bunny stares at her and she stares back, amused. It has not left the boy's side since it first laid eyes on his fallen body, it seems. Moon Rabbits do not accompany men, yet it took a fancy in this particular fearful child of men. She smiles and her flowers sing.

The bonds he created foretell the blessing she would bestow upon him.

She is but one goddess on the string of his destiny, she feels.

He is not just another bead she collects to thread them on her string.

"You really are prettier, Ise," his mother comments. She knows how to appreciate masterpieces and Persephone can't be prouder of her choice.

Persephone laughs. The flowers at her feet do not know how to convey such an emotion, so they attempt to shine brighter in an attempt to fit her mood. She yearns for hands that could caress each and every of them tenderly. Such good companions they are for her time in prison.

They need a reward. "Pat my flowers, Hayashi Issei."

The boy, torn between fretting over his beautiful arms and fretting over his mother's cryptic comments on his newfound beauty, looks up. He blinks. "Pardon me?"

"Pat my flowers," the goddess repeats patiently. He frets yet his worms are out of view, which compels her to not be a source of worries for him. He can generate enough monsters on his own. "They have accomplished a great task."

Her little Blessed one bends down slowly, complying with her request. However… He pokes more than he pats. He grazes more than he caresses.

Her flowers still bends wantonly forwards and swirls in pleasure when they get a touch, the cute little things.

His mother kneels by his side, knees digging into her flowers' bed. With careful movements, she offers the back of her hands and her knuckles to the flowers, flicking petals and smoothing leaves. She is doing exactly what her son should be doing.

Her flowers almost uproot themselves out of happiness.

Persephone smiles fondly at her beloved subjects. She doesn't enjoy the company of humans often, but this one, she might grow fond of quickly.

"When you wish to use my blessing, you must call it forth. _πρατά_ ," she informs them. "When you have accomplished your work, simply say _ἄ_ _νυσμα_. It will free your human senses of my presence. _"_

Issei tilts his head. He exchanges a look with Hikari. "What does your blessing do? No, I mean- what can we do with it?" he stumbles on his words, but Persephone understands him nonetheless.

Her flowers twist. They do not know how to show her amusement yet. Has she not told him already? The boy might be a tad slower than she first thought of him. "Your hands can impact the flow of life."

He opens his mouth. He inhales. He clamps his lips shut. He squints. Persephone doesn't need to watch his expressions to know he is confused, but it is entirely too entertaining to watch to even think about training her attention on something that is not his squishy little face.

"If you impact the flow, it will impact the things on its trajectory. If you open up the flow, anything that is alive will probably grow stronger or heal faster." Hikari surprises her yet again with her wits.

The boy perks up at the word 'heal'. His eyes, the color of dry soil, express all he thinks about as he gazes at his mother.

"Yes." Persephone does not point out he can do the opposite too. She has always preferred life over death.

The boy, starring at his hands then at his family, seems to share her preferences. He is getting cuter and cuter.

"If you wish to help your mother recuperate, you may use my blessing. I will show you what you can do," Persephone offers an olive branch and she knows she has conquered the boy to her side the moment the words spill from her dancing servants.

"Do not attempt anything without me for now. You have the power, but using it incorrectly would bring misfortune," she warns next.

He needs guidance and she needs to monitor his education. He could very well make fantastic plants bloom without her being present and that's not an outcome she can accept. She needs to be there. She needs life to be around her after her dreadful last conversation with her Lord and if she can't move towards it, then life will come to her. She didn't manipulate a boy into jumping off a cliff, which was not very nice and also a tad traumatizing, just to end up with nothing.

"What about mom? What is her blessing?" the boy asks, yet again starting to fret. He holds such an erratic heart.

"It is wise to have a guide," her attention and flowers turn towards Hikari the fearless, first of her name, "and that is why you have been gifted my eyes. You see what he cannot. Your eyes now see the life that inhabits the world and the way it moves around you." Persephone halts and thinks of her next words. She needs to be a good teacher for these previously non-enlightened humans. Her gaze is attracted by the numerous veins that run deep inside the earth, bringing life to the surface. "Do you see the veins? Do you see the webs? Each and every of these strands is a flow of life. Perhaps… you will also be able to impact it, if your talents bloom. Be a good ally for your son, Hayashi Hikari."

Hikari nods. She stares at her son's arms and Persephone knows she truly has opened her eyes to a magical vision. "I will be. Thank you for your thoughtfulness."

 _Don't thank me. Bring me more flowers._ Persephone keeps her thoughts to herself. For now.

The boy and mother are clearly too awed and too tired to think straight at this point. She has a long list of preferences and, after weighting the pros and the cons, comes to the conclusion that well rested minds strive to please more than fatigued ones. It also gives her more time to think about the color scheme she wants to plant around the brook.

"Go and rest, humans. Tomorrow will come quickly," Persephone advises.

Issei and Hikari get up slowly. Dirt decorates their knees and they look incredibly silly, smiling so much. The boy, for once, shows no signs of anger or sadness and if that is not an upgrade from the moody mess she led to this meadow, she doesn't what is. The woman just shines brightly with positive emotions and it is a treat for her eyes. The Moon Rabbit tilts his head, magical flower still somehow attached to his fluffy little head.

"Issei!" The older woman calls, all grey emotions and creaky bones, gesturing at the Moon Rabbit and the delicate flower weakly standing between his two long ears.

The boy turns sharply towards her urn. "We have a flower. A Glorygold. It's dying and we don't know how to take care of it," he admits quickly.

She eyes the Moon Rabbit and the way it balances a much beloved prize on its head. Its affection for a magical and medicinal plant is all too normal, considering its species. Moon Rabbits pound medicine for the immortals of the Eastern mythology and they have a strong affinity for anything related, directly or indirectly, to their precious pounding materials.

She mourned the flower when it was not offered to her. The boy –or his family as a whole- was too clever to let such a prize leave their clutch.

"Place it atop my urn," she commands.

Issei does as he is told, from fluid movements to snatch the flower sitting atop the Moon Rabbit to stiff jolts as he walks into her circle of attendants. They know they better not hurt her little humans and he should know he is under her protection for as long as he holds his promises dear, the silly, immature youth.

Finally, the Glorygold dances in her grasps.

A vein that creeps down the tree she uses as her throne thrills in her grasp. She tickles it and it vibrates and widens, widens, widens. The energy it discharges rains down directly into the Glorygold and the poor babe rights its stem with a prideful swing. It warms her urn as a thanks and Persephone couldn't be more pleased with the proud little flower.

Careful hands take ahold of the Glorygold seconds later. Hayashi Issei is not that slow, it seems.

"Bring it to me when it shows signs of weakness," Persephone offers. Warmth is hard to come by in this dreadful dead winter and the idea of letting go of a source of dancing warmth is too sad to be allowed to fester.

The son and the mother nod in unison. They drag their feet back to the older human, Glorygold in their grasp and Moon Rabbit hot on their heels.

She lets their joy and excited conversation be what they should be- private. She goes back to the inside of her urn, tuning out the outside world for a moment of peace. The boy has tired her immensely with his own tired mind and foolish monsters. She hopes he will be calmer when his feet and thoughts lead him to her meadow again.

(Tainted minds are not her business. Tainted souls… are. She dearly hopes she will not have to meddle with his spirit. Sacred Gears and their inhabitants always make a mess of an otherwise easy task. Her strength is not what it used to be and the Dragon's strength is strangely potent for a being that has been imprisoned for centuries.

A part of her still burns at the memory of his energy against her.)

She feels each footstep her little humans hammer against the ground, climbing a hill to find rest and peace.

 _Goodnight, Hayashi Issei. Goodnight, Fearless Hikari. May your dreams be full of flowers._

* * *

This wasn't in my plans. I wrote this in a few days and I decided to not call it a chapter, because it is not. It is my thoughts, conveyed by Persephone and Issei. I wanted to dwell deeper into Issei's mental well-being because, as some of you may have noticed, he has not been doing so well. He is doing better now that his mother is doing better, but it doesn't mean that everything is good and jolly now. It takes time. It takes efforts.

I've been thinking about the news these days. Actually, I've been following 'COVID-19' since it 'first' appeared on Western news outlets in January.

I am now in semi-confinement to comply with the social distancing put in place in my country. I study from home and hope for the best. Some of my family members are in countries were the situation is looking dire or **is** dire, no point to try and make it look pretty. I never thought it would get to this point, honestly. We're facing an epidemic and we will face a recession after it. It's rough, want it or not. 'Just' staying at home can be rough. I feel like a tiger in a cage, sometimes.

Wash your hands, people. More than that, enjoy the sun your loved ones can offer you and manage your own inner garden. If you're in a tough place, don't hesitate to reach out to others. Earthworms are cute. Worms the like of Issei's are not, Persephone can assure you.

Take care and be safe.

As usual, I hope you had a good time reading this interlude. I appreciate all your lovely comments and reviews. It warms my heart to know you like my slow paced and sometimes hard to read story. ;) The next chapter will be out in a few days! I will answer all the new questions and comments you have made then.

Some music recommendations: Tchaikovski's 'Pas de Deux' and 'Hymn to the Cherubim' are a personal favorite, if you feel like listening to classical music. It brings me to another realm, I swear.

 _Unlike Pluto_ is a wonderful artist with beautiful lyrics ('Revenge and a little more' is another personal favorite).

03/04/2020


	19. Crimson, Golden, Green I

Hayashi Issei finds himself munching on a toast after a long, long night. Persephone literally shooed them back home after a short explanation of what they could hypothetically do with her blessings, which they were grateful for. Oh, and a magical sentence that will act as a switch to turn their gift off and on. Magic is way too convenient these days.

He whispered the words to pause his blessing as soon as they left Persephone's meadow. _ἄ_ _νυσμα_ _._ The seal on his throat let him understand it means 'end' or 'accomplishment' before Persephone explained why that specific word would offer a moment of peace to their feeble human senses.

It's a tiny word with a whole lot of weight attached to it. It holds a deeper meaning, one he would prefer to overlook if his brain wasn't so good at overthinking. _I have accomplished my blessing._

He was thankful when his gift was switched off. It was overwhelming. Head-splittingly overwhelming. His headache has barely reduced and it has been hours, some of them filled with restless sleep, since his perceptions of the world changed. He feels them. He felt the life in the bark of a tree. He felt the way life was slowly fading as they hiked the hills, shriveling to a latent form to survive winter. Everywhere his hands went, be it a rock or his mother's waist, he felt bursts of energy come and go. The only thing he can compare it with is the burn of static electricity, but even then, the comparison is poor.

It didn't exactly hurt to feel so much. It sent him in a dizzying daze. Sleep barely helped him regain a sense of normalcy. He feels out of touch.

Now, at the kitchen table, his mother is busying herself on her laptop, reading books and websites about plants and flowers and Greek mythology. She sent him a pointed look when he entered the kitchen and he knows she knows Persephone isn't just a nice flower woman who possesses a burning desire to help humans.

She is learning from Chiasa. They've only been here for a few days but... Her arched eyebrow as she watches him comb his hair with his hands is telling enough of her newfound temper. She argued with him to walk on her own back to their house after they were blessed by Persephone. Yes, he supported her all the way home. Yes, she walked extra-slowly. Yes, he begged her during the whole walk to just stop and take a break.

She told him off and called him a worrywart.

In the end, she was just fine when he tucked her into her bed.

She sent him a smoldering glare this very morning when he strolled in her room with her wheelchair. He tried to be strong but her sad eyes as she held onto her pillow broke his will. He can't bear to see her unhappy and she knows it.

Now, she walks. But only when he is around. She could fall. Issei is not having her fall in a house full of edges and nonexistent cushions.

His grandmother, on the other side of the kitchen, is brewing coffee. She has not said much since he slithered out of his room into the kitchen, led by the tantalizing smell of breakfast. Issei's hypothesis is that she needs the beans juice before she can use her snark at full power.

The teen is content to simply enjoy the silence. His buttered toast complements his tea nicely and nothing is easier than ignoring the glare of disgust and utter horror his grandmother showcases as he dares to dunk his slice into his warm tea. He makes eye contact with her as he engulfs a particularly soggy piece.

"Issei," she warns.

He grins. It's payback times for all the bullying he received yesterday. It's not everyday he can tease his grandmother this much. He knows a bit too well her preciousness when it comes to table manners.

He dunks another piece of his toast and bends down to wolf it down, locking gaze with her as he does. His cheeks hurt form holding his snicker in.

She scrunches her nose at him. She turns around to face her beloved coffee maker, all the while emitting a disgusted grunt.

He controls his cackles as best as he can, which means he almost coughs his lungs out because, of course, his breakfast slice went down the wrong tube in his hysterical joy. _Take that, grandma._

"πρατά," Hikari mutters.

Issei picks up his ears at the foreign word. He remembers whose mouth proclaimed it to his ears first. Mouth is a grand word to use for sashaying flowers, however he is a bit at loss when it comes to describe Persephone's preferred mean of communication.

(The word they must say to awaken their blessing is quite literally a prayer said before the start of ploughing, Persephone explained. Issei finds it weirdly funny. _Here, have my blessing. Say a prayer to use your gift! I will answer. Always._

 _I'm watching you._ )

The teen cringes at his thoughts. _Well, that took a dark turn._

Chiasa turns and rests her back against the counter, ogling his mother openly.

Hikari beams at them. "You're shiny, mother- Chiasa."

Chiasa nurses her empty cup between her joined hands. "Is that a good thing?"

"Neither bad nor good. Magic is flowing through you," Hikari explains. Her gaze wanders over her ex-mother-in-law thoughtfully. "You're more colorful than me."

Issei takes a sip of his tea. That's an interesting comment. He dares to think about the implications of such a comment and the fact that his grandmother could be able to use magic and thus start her journey to overthrow bad grandparents and sit on the throne of the world as its sole cookie provider. Such a thought is terrifying, because he knows she has it in her to take control and as a young grandmother, she could have plenty of time to terrorize bad cooks and people who dunk their toasts in their tea till they're soggy. Ah, fudge. Now he is thinking about it.

 _Quick, Issei. Think. Talk. Do something._ "Maybe it's because of our ancestor?"

His mother, the sweet thing who lets him eat his toasts the way he wants to, blinks. "Ancestor?"

Issei nods. "My great-great-something on Grandma's side was a Youkai."

Hikari stares at him with a gaze that normally obliterated any intent he held of being naughty when he was a child. The memories are lovely, his current predicament, not so much. "Why wasn't I informed?"

Chiasa and Issei glance at each other in tandem. The elder smacks her lips. The youngest raises his shoulders slowly, offering his open palms and no smart idea to appease his mother. He never was the sharpest tool in the shed, okay.

Chiasa snorts at their shared incompetence. "We forgot," she admits with a grimace.

"Oh," Hikari drawls. She looks unimpressed.

Issei hides his grimace behind his cup of tea. He could have told her, that's true. He is acting like her ex-husband and that's unacceptable. He remembers all too well how he would seemingly forget to tell her stuff -everything. Business trips would be overlooked until his departure day. And then he would outright ignore communication, missing the fact that it could be important to mention that he was coming later than the date he had previously confirmed with them. When he would finally swing by, it was with a coworker, for supper, fully expecting a meal and sake to be set on the table, whatever the hours.

His screams still rings in Issei's ears, sometimes. He cringes.

"Can I get a rerun of your blessing?" Chiasa stirs the conversation on another subject. His mother's pout was telling him to kneel and accept his punishment for being a bad son and he was terribly tempted. He isn't supposed to make her unhappy.

Hikari beams and that's a blessing in itself. "I can see magic!" She announces.

Chiasa hums. She fills her cup to the brim with the bitter concoction of black beans. She does this while squinting at him. He doesn't squint back. This time, they are not playing.

"How does that give her a good green thumb?" Chiasa arches her eyebrow at him and he knows she is wondering what he left out of his conversation with Persephone. Fortunately for his ass, he knows he hid nothing. His grandmother can smell bullshitting a kilometer away. Grandmother's privileges are extensive and work in mysterious ways.

Issei raises his arms in the air hopelessly. "Don't ask me. I didn't know she would get that."

"I can see magic… and I think I might be able to affect it. So I could be able to help plants grow, theoretically." His mother pauses. Her brows meshes and he sees the gears moving as she riffles through her memories. "Persephone said I could, with training."

Issei stares at his hands. His draconic pinkie reflects the early sunlight that creeps through the windows. The bow creaks in a way Issei believes to be reassuring. It has done so every time he has so much as glanced at his right hand. Persephone said a lot of things, some cryptic, some awfully clear.

Chiasa takes a swing of her coffee. "What is it like, seeing magic?"

His mother closes her laptop. She steals his cup of tea and nurses it, neither drinking nor answering. Her eyes rest on him, but he sees how she sees through him, how he becomes secondary in her distant gaze as she follows the flows of magic crashing through his mortal body. "The most beautiful thing I've ever seen," she breathes out slowly. Her eyelashes tremble. Her pupils expend in her brown iris.

Issei believes her. His senses sung a terrible, fantastic story as he beheld a world he is unfamiliar with. Magic made everything starkly alive in a way he had never thought possible. The wind, the earth, the gurgling water, the trembling leaves… everything is alive. Every fiber of his being soared to meet the… Life that surrounded him for so long but that he never was aware of until yesterday.

Using his gift seems like a dangerous option. He could get lost in the feels. He could get lost and love it.

His mother, on the other side, uses magic as if she was born to do so. There's no fear, no questions, just pure wonder.

("You reek of fear, Hayashi Issei.")

Issei closes his eyes. There is a ball of anger and fear stuck in his throat, crawling between his vocal chords and numbing his tongue. Persephone stung him with words he couldn't refute and they're damning him.

Here he is, the boy who has a magic bow and dares not use it for fear of consequences. Here he is, the boy who made a deal with a Dragon to use a Sacred Gear he is afraid to think of. There she is, the woman he calls mother, so fragile yet so strong, seeing the world in shades of magic and marching into it with a toothy beam.

Between his lidded eyelashes, he watches her be happier than he ever remembers her being since her husband left them.

She bounced back and dived into magic as if it was natural while he dwelled on his hurts and couldn't get past it. He barely knows what to do with his bow. He barely knows what to do at all.

One blink later, her gaze focuses back on him. She smiles apologetically, as if focusing on magic when he is here was an offense. He wants to tell her he isn't offended. He understands. Magic is real and she has to adjust to it. She can look through him all she wants and some more if she wishes to.

His grip on his cup tightens. Perhaps his mother would do better than he can with what he has.

Scales grind against each other to the forefront of his mind. [Would it be possible to have a blessed minute where you do not sully your own name, boy?]

Issei frowns. _What-_

[Shut up. I have enough of your deprecating thoughts. They have entertained me for a while, but there is such a thing as boredom. Either entertain me with some more imaginative ploy or stop sending me so much sadness and teenage angst. Your mind reeks of it and I may be your prisoner and you, my jail, but I intend to have some sweet moments of peace in the land field you call your mind, you dumpster on fire.]

Issei taps his fingers against the table. He just needed his friendly Dragon to wake up and dampen his already dying mood. _You could stop watching my thoughts for once, you stalker._

[Dimwit,] Ddraig enunciates slowly. [I'm imprisoned in your soul. If I could, I would be out and broiling your stupid head till it disappears from the surface of this planet. Sadly, I cannot and I am stuck listening to the angst of a pre-hormonal creature. Life is strange. If I can pull through this much stupidity, so can you.]

"Oh," Hikari exhales. Issei snaps his neck up and there she is, half-bent over the table, pupils so wide her iris are disappearing and watching him like a hawk.

Her smile blooms into an art work again. "Your left arm is shinier now!"

"Shinier?" he asks. A part of his mind has an inkling as to why it could be so. The lizard is doing something again.

"Yes. You're very sparkly, darling, but your left arm is downright…" Hikari trails off and Issei swears specks of light are dancing in her eyes. Her grin is starting to blind him now. So much pure giddiness is doing things to his poor, cold, withered heart. "Glowing. You're glowing. Is something happening?"

First, Ddraig insults him and now he is attracting his mother's attention. Can't the big bad dragon stays bad so Issei can stay mad? It's dizzying to go from anger to appeasement so fast.

"I'm talking with Ddraig." He taps his left arm a bit too harshly and it's dumb because he is the one feeling pain, not the guest of his soul, but reason can go take a walk somewhere else for now. "This is the arm where my Scared Gear is."

She waves at his arm. "Say hello for me."

[Good day to you, m'lady. I applaud your efforts to raise this by-product of nature,] Ddraig purrs. Where he finds the guts to say all of this smoothly, Issei doesn't know, but he would like to find this source of shamelessness to bathe in it and thus be able to shut down the Dragon with one witty comeback.

He settles for a reasonable, measured message. "He said hello."

Ddraigs freaking humphs. [Your mouth keeps yapping, except when it needs to be useful.]

Issei feels twitches run under his skin, circling his eyes. He lets them take control of his expression. Fuck the lizard and fuck the system that put a grumpy, old and insufferable winged lizard in his body.

Hikari's expression changes. She goes from wonder to judgment as she squints at his face. He smacks his lips together as innocently as possible, minding his business because she totally cannot read or hear his thoughts and so she doesn't how many expletives he just used internally. Right. Right?

"Don't be jealous. Magic is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," she reaches for his hand and squeezes it tenderly, "beside your little crumply face the day you were born," she adds with sounds that seem far too close to cooing for his blushing ears. "You were so cute."

Much to his rising embarrassment, she pinches his cheeks and giggles.

He fights back with a much practiced pout. She counteracts with full on pressing his cheeks together, meshing his lips until they jut so much he looks like a big lipped fish. He smacks them together, effectively mimicking the sound of his favorite food living in the sea.

His poor attempt at parodying a fish earns him a laugh out of his mother and that's the best pay he can get.

"Isn't he the cutest thing in the universe?" Hikari asks, turning towards his grandmother.

Chiasa lets her gaze drift between her grandson and his mother. Issei smacks his lips some more, wiggling his eyebrows at her with pure abandon. Hikari squishes him harder, blinding everyone with her pure outlook on life. The fumes of her morning coffee start to work as she grimaces at her little family.

"He looks like a squished squid," she comments. She takes another swing of her coffee and enjoys the kick of energy she feels coming.

Hikari pouts. Issei pouts. Chiasa's coffee suddenly tastes sour.

She grimaces. She looks at the ceiling, grumbling. "So yes. Very cute."

Hiakri goes back to beaming.

She stands and reaches over the table to ruffle his dirty hair. "See. Everyone loves you. You're such a fluffball."

Issei halfheartedly fights back the kisses that rain on his forehead. _No, mom. No. I'm not cute. Stahp._

Older hands come and mess with his nest of hair too. "Your hair really is soft."

Hikari stops her attack. She stares at her only son and his glorious tangled mane. She tugs at a rebellious lock of hair that just wants to fight gravity till the end of the world. A thoughtful hum escapes her lips. "What kind of shampoo do you use?"

Issei squints. He finally succeeds in grappling their hands and pushing them off his head. "The normal kind?"

The two women look at each other.

"We need to teach him a few things," Chiasa comments as she snakes her hands back into his mane. She curls his hair around her fingers, staring at the broken tips critically.

Dread settles in his heart as Issei watches his mother nods gravely. The fact that she parts his hair into two and starts to twist it into a short braid of sort doesn't comfort him. At all.

* * *

Issei paces the floor of his room.

He paddles the air with his arms as he mouths words he doesn't pronounce. This silent conversation continues for quite some time till he pauses at the foot of his bed. He raises his arms and smacks his temples. His fingers rack his tousled, disheveled hair. He groans. "No, Ddraig. I don't know in how many languages I need to tell you this, but it's a no in all of them."

[No. You are allowed to say yes and nothing else.]

Issei growls. He grinds his knuckles against his skull. It doesn't alleviate his headache. "Shut up. Shut up."

A piece of paper sticks to his sock. He peels it off with his other foot and sends it flying with a kick.

The piece of paper floats slowly before it slips under his nightstand. Red ink gleams in the shadow. The circle and the complicated patterns decorating its insides glow softly, emanating light and magic. The paper seems to have a pulse of its own. Its red glow jolts into dark corners then retracts as if it hadn't gone out of the slim piece of dead tree.

A spider is attracted to the light. The predator thus becomes prey as it walks over the mysterious red seal that brands the paper.

The light flares up.

The arachnid shrivels. The light engulfs it and the insect sizzles and deflates. It falls flat to the ground, hairy legs twisted around its tortured body. With one last heartbeat of red light, it melts into the piece of paper.

Calm and quiet return to the twilight under the nightstand. The glow diminishes to an imperceptible shine, much like a distant, feeble star in a vibrant night sky.

Issei doesn't see any of this. He walks out of his room, his senses muted and the anxious creaks of his bow ignored. He is blind and deaf for he is arguing.

"You're insane, Ddraig."

[I told you you would have a night of respite. Now is the time to train.]

The teen inhales sharply. How sweet it would be to strangle the Dragon. How sweet and unrealistic it would be. He exhales a shaky breath. Beggars can still dream. "I am not going to Antarctica to train. I'm not moving away, period."

Ddraig snorts. [Wimp.]

"Asshole," the teen snarls in the empty hallway.

His mother's head peeks out of a door, offering him a horizontal frown. Her arched eyebrow tells how much she is impressed with his lack of etiquette, which is, not at all.

His cheeks instantly start to burn. "I'm talking with Ddraig," he tries to explain.

His mother frowns deepen.

[Whipped,] Ddraig comments.

Hikari still shows no mercy for his poor choice of words.

Issei scratches the back of his head. _Think, Issei. Think._ Finally, he chooses one option and waves at his left arm. "He is being outrageous!"His HIs check

'Blame the other till the end' is a good option, especially when the other is a dormant Dragon who cannot speak for himself outside of his mind. _Checkmate, stupid Dragon. It's your fault I'm bad now._

[Coward,] the stupid Dragon snaps.

"Uh-huh," Hikari hums. She eyes her son, arched eyebrow subsiding into a less judgmental expression, but her son feels her thoughts on the subject all the same. Issei feels cowed. "Maybe you should take your argument outside, darling."

Issei nods sharply. Yes. He will be able to scream at the dumb guest of his soul outside. And maybe cuddle the bunny. Bunny will understand his struggles. And if it doesn't, at least his fur is extra-soft. The little thing is super soothing to pet and it even rolls on its back to get tummy rubs. Even his sneezes are too damn cute. Best pet ever and whatever Chiasa says, he is keeping it.

[See? She's giving you permission. Antarctica is outside of this terribly built house. You can go now.]

Twitches are frequent guests around his eyes now and yet again they come because Ddraig is being ridiculous and Issei would kick him out of his mind if he could. _Shut the fuck up before I find a way to strangle yoooooooooooooooooou._

He catches a glimpse of his mother frowning at him again. She knows he is swearing and she isn't in his head. Has Persephone given her mind-reading abilities too?

[No. You are simply too easy to read.]

The teen sighs. He does the walk of shame all the way to the door leading to the garden, where he stops only to put on his shoes.

"Ise?" Hikari calls and he hopes it's because she forgave him and his bad words. Sadly, no. Beggars can dream, but they should dream a bit more realistically when their mother and their dislike of rude words are involved. "Can you take the Glorygold back to Persephone?"

He eyes the golden flower who dances vigorously in her palms. "Don't you want to keep it with you a little longer? It's good for you."

She shakes her head. The thin fuzz that sprouts from her naked head sways softly with her movement. "I looked at it and I think it needs to spend some time with Persephone... She did say to take it to her from time to time to maintain it."

The amount of hours the flower can live without the goddess is a bit on short side. He will have to ask her to teach him how to take care of it. Maybe he will learn a way to make it more effective or how to stretch the length of his healing action. He is making a lot of speculations and he knows it. What is sure is that a neighborly goddess will keep their favorite plant alive for a bit more. And also tell him how he can use what he feels to 'protect life' and help his mother live a long and fulfilling life. "Okay. I will be quick."

He offers his open palms and in one smooth swoop, his not-quite –ailing mother hands him the magical flower.

He tenses when the roots of the swooning plant curls around his fingers. Electricity bubbles under his skin. He shivers. The Glorygold stills for a moment. His hands burn. The flower throws its head back and starts to headbang like a maniac at a metal concert.

"You okay, darling?" his mother asks.

He smiles. His cheeks hid his lie and the electricity crashing through his body, numbing his muscles and wrecking his nerves. "Yes."

A flicker of her pensive eyes makes him open his big mouth again to tell the truth. "I think my gift is acting up. I can feel… life coming from the Glorygold. It's not…" pleasant at all. It hurts. Issei decides to withhold that truth to dish it out another day. "It's weird," he offers a weak chuckle.

His mother grasps his elbow. "I could go with you, if you feel uncomfortable-"

"No," he cuts her abruptly. He licks his lips and tries to soften his voice. "No. I need to clear my head a bit too. And talk with Ddraig. I'll be fine, mom."

Her big brown eyes stare too deep in his soul and uncover secrets he would like to keep hidden from view forever. His weakness is too pathetic to be shown to the world. One person is beholding the mess he is already and that's enough.

"Are you sure?"

He smiles. He smacks his free hand against his forehead and salutes. "Affirmative, captain."

She chuckles. Her hand leaves the crook of his bent elbow. "Very well. Be safe and don't fall. If Persephone bullies you, tell me. I will bully her back."

Issei pictures his mother boxing with a giant flower and that's too humorous to not laugh. "Sure thing, mom."

She swats his side, between his hip and his ribs. He yelps. "Don't make fun of your mother. Mothers are fearsome creature."

Issei presses his lips together. Twitches of another kind are coming and the harder he fights them, the harder they press to make him smile. He feels giggles building form the deepest part of his chest. "I believe you," he tries to say with the most serious expression he possesses in his arsenal.

It fails.

His lips start to tremble and giggles escape him by the end of his sentence.

Hikari challenges his amusement with a glare that would fit a playful kitten.

"Go before I show you what these guns-" she flexes her arms and Issei giggles more because there's nothing there beside bones and courage, "can do."

Issei dances around another well deserved jab as he goes out laughing out loud. The chill morning can't stop his smile. His mother sure is something else and he wouldn't have her any other way.

The door is closed behind him. He steps into the known wilderness and-

His shoes hit something a step later. He looks down and sees a familiar object.

The branch he brought back the day he met Ddraig is lying in the ground. Its twisted form has not changed since he dragged himself from the mud and the dirt of the valley to the windy tops of the hills. The wind must have knocked it over, the boy muses as he bends down to grab it.

He grasps it.

He throws it to the ground immediately.

"What the heck," he gasps.

The branch… feels alive. It doesn't feel a dead piece of wood at all.

He hesitates. He could use his gift, but he doesn't know how to-

("You reek of fear, Issei Hayashi.")

"πρατά," he mutters.

Immediately, tremors thrum through his hands, to his shoulders, to his head. His senses are overwhelmed. The world is alive. The branch is alive. Everything is alive, but the branch, as he grazes it with his nails, drums a rapid, quivering heartbeat. The hand holding the Glorygold warms to level that are uncomfortably inhuman yet still manageable.

"Isn't that supposed to be dead?"

[Apparently, it is not.]

Issei rubs his head. He can't make sense of the situation. "It's a stick."

[A goddess lives in your backyard. Do not be so surprised by the Supernatural.]

"It's a stick. But it's alive. It shouldn't be alive. It doesn't have roots or a leaves or anything connecting it to something that could provide the nutrients it needs to be alive."

[And I am a Dragon stuck in a dimwit. Life is full of indecipherable mysteries.]

Issei massages his temples. "ἄνυσμα," he whispers.

Tingling sensations travel from his fingertips to his palms, eliminating magic and perceptions to leave way for his usual numb human senses. He shakes his hands vigorously, bating the air and the magic away. It's a relief and a regret to feel something akin to normalcy again.

[Your magical prowess is still has pitiful as ever. Just this tiny bit and you're already tired.]

Issei twirls the stick in his grasp. He throws it to the sky and snatches it before it falls. Its smooth bark fits comfortably against his palm. Maybe… maybe he could keep it. "We met yesterday, Ddraig."

[Agony lengthens time.]

He chuckles. His mother put him in a rather happy mood and no Dragon will be able to spoil that. "You're a drama queen, Ddraig."

The silence that follows feels like victory.

Issei turns his stick so the broken, twirled tip points towards the sky. He starts to walk, a soft sound following his steps as he taps the ground in cadence with his march with his newfound toy. He paces the trail that will guide him to the valley where Persephone resides.

Bunny appears at the turn of the trail. It happily hops to Issei's side and the teen maybe, perhaps, coos at his little companion. He kneels, lets go of his stick and scratches the animal behind its ears in a way that makes the little fur ball rolls its eyes in pure bliss.

[The animal has had enough attention. Let us go see the goddess.]

Issei sighs as he rights himself. "Her name is Persephone."

[Do I care? No.]

Issei grabs his walking stick. The Glorygold's roots swirl around his fingers, holding itself in place to withstand the cahoots its glorified carrier makes it suffer through. Its head has stopped swaying furiously, but its dance remains energetic. The view amuses Issei and he pets the flower the way he has seen his mother do yesterday night, with Persephone's attendants. "I know. Still, remember it. We will see her often from now on."

[Go already, you sloth,] Ddraig grumbles.

"Aye, aye," the boy mutters. One last graze of his knuckles against the warm flower later, he plants his stick firmly unto the ground and starts his journey.

He steps over his rabbit friend. The little ball of happiness and cuddles sneezes. A second later, it hops around his feet, following his trail. It runs and stops, minuscule pink nose twitching cutely as it waits for Issei to catch up just to playfully run and waddle its butt to its next resting spot. A warm spring wind timidly meets them as they advance into the valley.

[How laidback.]

Issei rolls his eyes. "Shouldn't I be?"

[You seem to have forgotten you've only unlocked Twice Critical. I haven't. Its gaudy appearance haunts my every waking moments. Unfortunately, I do not sleep.]

Issei wants to make a joke about watching him sleep at night and being creepy, but he is sure the Dragon will dislike it. Way to go to make his teacher hates him more than he already does.

[Tell me, child of Men, what are your abilities? You told me you are a descendant of a Youkai. I can also feel a foreign presence in your right arm.]

"I don't know from which Youkai. My grandmother told me my ancestor worked for the lady of fire. She probably meant the leader of Kyoto, Yasaka," Issei tells absently. He doesn't know what else to add beside the fact that he has nothing, no notable information, and he will have to do some serious research before he ever approaches the city of Kyoto. Yasaka having murder on her mind when she sees him or hears about his lineage sounds so unlucky. It sounds like a joke, a lame probability that shouldn't be accounted for.

(Issei knows a lot of lame jokes and weirdly enough, they are all centered on the low probabilities of things happening in his life and how he always finds a way to stumble upon them all. His luck is in the negative numbers.)

Issei skips over a patch of wet moss. These made him slip too many times when he was a kid. He doesn't trust them and never will. He observes the field of moss that sprouted overnight and now covers the trail he is supposed to go down on, preferably not on his ass. The bunny sneezes in his direction before it effortlessly jumps from one dry patch to another. Its small little paws leave no traces on the dry,

Okay. The teen plants his stick in the ground and tests its flexibility by blocking it with one leg and pushing the top part backwards, pressing against his leg to see how much weight the piece of wood can take. He is bending backwards, stretching his back to keep his leg in place and add more weight to the traction before the stick offers the smallest of creaks.

Issei stops his malevolent action towards the poor broken branch. He pats his newfound toy he is officially never letting go off. "You're one sturdy stick."

Now, here comes the fun. He calculates the length of the dewy clump of moss with a glance. 7 meters at most. Probably. He backpals. He pauses at a safe distance. He tucks the Glorygold in his pocket and closes its zipper. Then, he holds his stick with both hands and starts running.

When his toes hit the patch, he firmly plants his weapon down and then he flies.

He ends up on his ass on the other side of the patch, stick in hand.

He smirks nonetheless. He still has it. No training, no serious exercising, but his muscles remembers high jumping and long jump. That feels… good. His ass is starting to get wet which motivates Issei to stand. He does so with a chuckle. He pats the dirt and the mud away. He still got it. He still got it. He could show his mother how high he can jump later…

[As much as your stupendously stupid actions amuse me, I believe you forgot to mention the sentient being living in your right arm.]

Issei hums. He pictures his elegant weapon in his right hand and there it comes, real against his skin. The weight is all too familiar and comforting. The bow creaks, pleased to be able to spring free. "This is my bow… I found it in the Forest. In the Underworld."

(The last words he pronounced leave a bitter aftertaste. Memories are boiling to the surface and Issei will be damned if he lets them take over his mind. He squares his jaw and thinks about his mother, happy and healthy.)

[I know of which forest you are speaking,] Ddraig says slowly.

Issei catches up on his little furry friends and they continue their stroll down the hills. His conversation with his guest has come to a pause, yet he doesn't dispel the bow back to wherever it came from. The bow is all too happy to be in his hands and the teen feels content holding it. He can fight off his memories by focusing on the present and the mysterious symbols adorning the light wood of his bow. He had never noticed them before. Not like he had the time to note them when he was killing-

Issei kicks a pebble a bit too hard. It frightens the bunny. It shots him a glare and a huff. The boy immediately feels bad. _Sorry._

[Curious… very curious,] Ddraig finally murmurs.

The boy blinks. Uh-oh. That doesn't sound good at all. "What is?"

[You found a magical artifact in a foreign and highly dangerous place and decided to touch it.]

Issei licks his lips. The bunny stares at his soul with what resembles to judgment. The not-quite human boy cringes. "…yes?"

[It is truly impressive how someone as simple as you is still alive. You were born under a lucky star, it seems.]

The teen grimaces. That stung and he has yet no excuse for his stupidity. "I don't think I'm lucky."

 _I got stuck with you. And my underdeveloped brain._ His teeth find his bottom lip and they bite. His tongue tastes blood and regret.

[It was a manner of speech. Such a thing as luck doesn't exist. Coincidences do not exist. You found the bow because someone wanted you to find it.]

Issei tenses. He stares at his bow and now, the weight and the familiarity it exudes makes him feel queasy. _Coincidences do not exist._ What does Ddraig mean? Is there another convoluted plot hiding behind his weapon? Will he need to fight again? Will he need to go back there, go back to the Underworld and the Forest? Go back _there, there where he tasted defeat and gore for the first time. No. No. No. Nonononono._

The thoughts are dizzying and so are the soft, soothing noises that come from the humming, sentient weapon.

Ddraig exhales slowly in the boy's ears. The drawled sound tugs at the little human's heartstrings. [The Forest has a Lord and this Lord, once upon a time, struck a deal with men of valor. In exchange for the right to come and go in his kingdom, they would swear fealty to the Lord and protect his land and its inhabitants from evil.]

Issei presses his hand against his forehead. Stress and anger build a hard ball in his throat. It's hard to breathe. It's hard to think. It's hard to believe taht he, perhaps, got embroiled in another fucked up story.

(Ah! He is lying again. Of fucking course it would happen. He is stuck in another plot where he needs to act, be the man of the situation and somehow save the day. His luck is in the negative and it wouldn't be as fun for the gods of this world if his life wasn't just a field full of landmines that he can't escape. Ahahaha.)

His throat constrict around the ball of pure anxiety he created. "I wasn't aware of that."

[Lesson number one: do not touch an artifact if you do not know what it can do or what it represents,] Ddraig grinds in Issei's ears. [Dimwit.]

Vomit climbs his esophagus. The bow falls to the ground. He bites his fist.

Images and memories crash back to the forefront of his mind. How could he forget? How could, during a couple of days, forget how he got the Glorygold and his first taste of fire and death? "I was going to die, Ddraig," the boy confesses. "And then I killed an innocent animal because I'm a fucking idiot."

Something soft and gentle presses itself against his leg. Issei looks down. Whimpers escape the little rabbit. It stands on its hind legs, holding its front paws up to pat Issei's trembling legs.

Issei kneels and presses his head against the bunny's fur, eyes closing on their own. He doesn't want to think anymore. Anything but his thoughts. He killed something. He killed something with a bow he found on the ground and of course, of course, of course it would come back to haunt him. He is a dirty murderer and that will never change. Dirty and stupid and beyond redemption in both categories.

He wants to cut his head off. Maybe his thoughts would leave him alone then.

 _Dream all you want, you fucking retard._

[…Child,] Ddraig calls and it's almost too soft for such a sharp tongue. His grouchiness wanders somewhere else in the spirit world he inhabits, forgotten for the time being. [Did someone give you this bow?]

Issei presses his head harder against his companion. "No. I found it on the ground."

[I see.]

The little animal nuzzles the boy's quivering neck. It eases its head into the tight knot the human child makes on the ground, cold pink snout finding a heartbeat somewhere along his carotid and staying there. It huffs gently, puffing warm air and peace at him.

Issei unknots himself. He stares at the trail that winds up around the hills. The river looks like a silver ribbon, glistening between the lush foliage of the surrounding trees. It reminds him of more violent trees and sadder times. He soldiers on through his memories. He needs to talk. Ddraig will mock him and all will be better. He is a big baby and he needs to grow up.

"Well, not on the ground. It was… It was lying on a tree's roots, close to the Glorygold, just at the foot of the wall and…" Issei loses his words. The scenes are vivid in his mind, yet his vocabulary falls short to explain what he saw and what he did. Finally, his mouth bursts open and his story spills. "I think it appeared there, because it wasn't there the first time I looked and it appeared when I was in danger."

Ddraig doesn't mock him.

[You passed the wall without aid?] he asks instead.

Issei nods. He settles his head against the bunny's head and absently rubs his chin against the fluffiness beneath him. "Yes. I just walked right through it. I thought I was still outside but I wasn't. There was no wall."

He really has the worst luck known to men to just walk right through an ancestral wonder of magic.

[There is a wall,] Ddraig asserts. [The Lord of the Forest allowed your entrance. He deemed you a man of valor and bestowed a weapon of valor upon you.]

Issei sighs. The warm spring wind that climbs the hills suffocates him. He would like some ice cold water to drown in. "I'm not a man of valor."

[That is true,] Ddraig agrees. Issei bites his lip. [You are a child of valor.]

The boy stays silent for a moment. Finally, he lets a laugh out. It sounds strangely like a sob. "I thought you would tell me I am disappointment."

Ddraig snorts. [I am not you, boy.]

The boy nuzzles the fluffy fur tickling his throat. "Isn't that Lord going to kill me? I violated his rules. I killed something I was supposed to protect."

[No. The laws of the Forest are different from your laws. To kill and to be killed are understood differently. The strong eat the weak, the weak eat the strong, the fittest survive.]

"Oh." A pink, twitching nose pokes his cheeks tenderly. Issei answers the attention the rabbit pours on him with a caress.

[You have much to learn.]

"I suppose there is no way to undo the deal I made," Issei knows the answer before he finishes asking. It's graved in his bones. It's written in his flesh. It's carved in his soul. He has to ask anyway.

The old Dragon taps his claws against something metallic. Issei feels needles digs into his skull. [Do you wish for death?]

The not-quite-teen pulls a face. _As if that was a viable option after all I've done to stay alive and kicking._ "No."

[Then there is no way to weasel out of this. However, your task is far easier than it was then, considering how there is a wall between greedy Devils, Fallen Angels and the Forest now,] Ddraig explains calmly. He takes his time to enunciate each word, lazily mentioning facts that ease Issei's quivering heartbeat. The condescending grouch is back and the boy is oddly relieved.

Issei sighs and there's the start of hysterical laughter hiding in the sound he produces. "That's convenient."

[It is.] Ddraig pauses. [The deal has been made. Am I wrong, bow?]

The only human in the valley stares at the fallen weapon. Sweats run along the teen's spine. The boy guiltily makes a sound that sounds far too much like a 'yes' for his peace of mind.

Issei sits on his heels. His legs quiver under his weight and he accepts with a grunt that his ass needs to be on the ground because his body is overreacting to his fear. Again. The only upside is the fact that his rabbit hops in his embrace when he falls to the ground.

Issei pets it instantly. Petting cute things heals his soul.

The sky is too blue and too pure over his head. It hurts his dry eyes. "What do we do now?" he asks the silence.

A bird chips. If only he could understand animal's languages, maybe he would understand the goal of his life and not be in a ridiculous actor in the hilariously stupid situation he lives through.

[Get up, child.]

Issei sniffs. The ground is cold, his pants are wet and the bunny's little paws are humid against his thighs, but he doesn't want to move yet. Persephone is going to turn his brain into mush with all the questioning he has to perform and all the conclusions he will have to draw from her answers. Gods and their cryptic answers will give him a heart attack or an aneurysm before his time comes.

Ddraig sighs. [We're not going to see that goddess. Go up the hill.]

Issei grumbles. Going uphill after all that walking and freaking out? Ugh. "Why?"

[To train. I wish to see what you can do with the bow.]

Issei lets himself fall flat against the ground with a sigh. His coat poorly protects his back from the humidity rising from the earth. Radioactive green moss tickles his skull. He tickles it back with a finger. "I don't know if I can use it," he admits.

[You did when you were in your mother's hospital.]

"That was different," Issei whispers. He had a goal. There was an endgame. There was an end to his mischief and mayhems. He was going to put everything down and live a cozy little life with his family and never think about the Underworld ever again. That was the plan and it all went down the drain pretty fast, didn't it? Oh, how he loves his life and the fuckery that jumps from its nooks and crannies for the giggles and shit.

"And how do you know that?" Has the Dragon lied about what he can and what he cannot see inside his mind?

[Anything involving your mother is highly emotional for you. Emotions that drown my prison in disgusting junk. I do not want to know what you feel, but your mind is ruled by your emotions and memories that ignite those feelings. I know what you did there. What else have you done with your weapon?]

"I can shoot…" Issei trails off. He scratches his cheek. What does he shoot off with the bow? Immaterial arrows? Energy? Magic? His soul? He stares at his mysterious bow and wonders. He doesn't know and the silent piece of magical artwork cannot really explain either. Yet another hole he has to fill in.

[Show me.]

"Not here. " Definitely not so close to Persephone's lodging. Same thing goes for his family's house. The town is all too close for magical experiment too. One bad shot and he might end up with a problem. Inexplicably destroyed houses will bring attention and he doesn't need that.

[That is why you need to go up the hills.]

Issei sits. He pats the bunny out of his lap. The animal sniffs but does leave. The boy reaches for his bow and jumps to his feet. His stick ends in his other hand a second later.

"I'm going to go uphill, but you need to explain everything to me. I don't want to use a magical artifact without knowing how it works," he argues.

He is, admittedly, a bit done with secrets and mindboggling explanations that do not make any sense. It is high time to learn what channeling his soul means and how he can do it to finally use his Sacred Gear. And his bow. And his gift.

It is time to level up from helpless human, because the Supernatural world will not go easy on his teenager ass.

[Humph. Very well,] the old soul begrudgingly accepts. [The bow is tied to your soul much like I am myself shackled to you. It uses what most humans would call magic to shot the arrows you used to scare off that healer in the hospital.]

Issei twirls his stick between fingers. He nods thoughtfully. Finally, some answers. "What about you? How would you call this?"

[Dragons have their own words for what they deem remarkable.]

Issei eyes his nails. They're starting to look good again and it would be such a shame to eat them, but Ddraig is being cryptic and unhelpful and Supernatural beings are always so edgy in their wording it's starting to get on his nerves. _That doesn't tell me anything, O Red Dragon Emperor of Domination._

He wrestles his gaze away from his wretchedly wrecked fingernails. He observes the patch of moss he flew over. It looks like it grew while he had his back turned. Issei squints. It actually _did_.

(Persephone's presence is potent. A bit too potent. Is her artificial spring going to reach the rest of the valley and the town? In January? That's not great, considering it will blow his cover. He will have to talk with her about controlling herself. Life is great, but maintaining it while also making sure her ex-husband -or whatever Hades is for her- stays out of his territory is also wonderful.)

"How would Supernatural beings call this? I understand they would probably give it different names depending on the regions and species, but what would be the general term?"

A warm breath hits his nape and if he didn't know better, he would think it was Ddraig snarling down his neck. That's impossible, though. Probably. [Magic. However, supernatural beings have different interpretations of what magic is. Devils think Magic is a sentient being, and that they are blessed by Her if the quality of their soul pleases Her.]

Issei steps on the slippery mess of moss and overturned soil that was once a path. He plants his stick firmly in the ground. A question makes him slow his movements to listen closely to his teacher's words. It has been a long time since he has been schooled by anyone. "What about you?"

[For the last time, boy, stop asking about Dragons. You are not one. You do not reason like one. You will neither be taught our ways nor use our words.]

The boy gulps. "Okay. I get it."

Ddraig continues as if he had not just chastised his host rather drily. [Humans do not reason and do not learn the same way Devils do. You could have read all the books in the Underworld and followed the greatest masters, yet learn nothing useful for your craft.]

The little host hesitates. His toes dig into mushy earth and he advances slowly, minding his steps and the shinier portions of lichen that are definitely traitorous in nature. "So I don't need to… channel my soul?"

[In theory, no. In practice, you may use a process close to the way of the Devils because of my presence in your soul.]

Issei tiptoes around a rock bathed with blooming crocus, creating in a disarray of yellow and purplish white. He frowns, concentration setting deep lines around his eyes. Ddraig continues to whisper in attentive ears. [Magic is everywhere, surrounding you and passing through you. Your human body is a container for magic. A small one, sadly. However, in your tragic magical circumstances, you succeeded to be something right. You are open to magic. Truly a great thing for it means you are capable of guiding magic. Have you been a closed human, you would have been unable to awaken me and would have consequently died when that miserable goddess pushed you off a cliff.]

Issei scoffs. It reminds him rather severely how why Persephone exists in such a grey area in his heart. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, she never really is an ally unless she is in the mood. "That's nice to know."

[Devils channel their soul because they can produce magic, a feat humans are incapable of. Humans, to my knowledge, canalize energy. They do not have the capacity to hold it, so they act as a vector of sort.]

Issei sidesteps a frog. His bunny bumps nose with the green amphibious, sniffing it intensively before sneezing. It waddles past the human and the animal, shaking its long ears in disgust.

Gears are grinding themselves to dust in his head. Things make so much sense now that someone who understands how humans' magic work has appeared. "So… I don't produce energy, but I can move it around?"

[It is as you say.]

Issei turns around, dangerous patch of moss and other plants now past him, and beholds the valley. It has turned a few shades greener since yesterday. A warm wind comes to embrace him then dips back into the valley. He reckons the trees will turn a few shades livelier by the end of the day. Persephone enjoys busying herself, it seems.

He is a bit jealous.

"What can I do with magic?" the teen asks. He toys with ideas, but he wishes for them to remain vague until he is sure of what he can do with what he has.

[Nothing.]

The tone is dry. The delivery is stale. The word is rotten.

Issei forgets to breath. "What?" he hisses.

[Your container is too small; you can only let a trickle of energy pass through you at all time. Otherwise, your body would be overloaded. You would most probably explode.]

Issei pictures a container bursting open, unleashing bloody water upon the earth. He winces.

"Are you sure?"

[I do not believe you would be able to do anything of importance with the trickle of magic that can pass through you.]

Issei dispels his bow with a slap against his stick. He grinds the branch between his knuckles. That's not good. That's not good at all.

The bunny hops from one side of the trail to the other, not minding the still and silent boy anymore.

Issei watches the little mammal. It hops rapidly, speeding as it goes until it's nothing but a blur of white going up and down the trail for its own amusement.

The human teen unlocks his sore jaw. Something clicks. He has no space, but maybe he could have speed. "Can I accelerate the flow of magic going through me?"

[…Interesting point.]

Issei suppresses his smiles, because he has not won yet. He will rejoice when he has a reason to. "You're not saying it's impossible."

[It is not impossible. However… It will hurt like nothing else you've experienced before. I am not kind with my hosts, boy.]

Issei scoffs. "The name's Hayashi Issei, Ddraig. And we're talking today because I jumped off a cliff and held a powerline in my hands and then sold you one on my fingers, which, by the way, hurt like a bitch."

Ddraig chuckles. [Run uphill, boy. Your training starts now.]

Issei feels the smirk the Dragon no doubt sports. He hides his shivers under the small jolts he does to get his legs to warm up before he goes into a full blown race up the hill. "Yes sir."

* * *

...

Hello!

My finals killed any will to write or type on my computer for a whole month. That's impressive, eh. I'll try to not make any promises on when I'm updating, because last time, I said it would take a few days. I don't know if we can consider a month 'a few days', ahaha. Don't worry, dear readers, I try to take care of my health and my stress levels so you have a quality read and I have quality sleep.

As usual, I hope you're all well, dear readers.

The first arc was quite hard to write for me because no side character was important, in a way. It was centered around Issei and his lack of social skills and more importantly, his lack of care. He didn't care about people. He didn't care about them because his own worries were eating him away. I wanted to show his side of things, so yes, he might have stumbled on weird or interesting people but he didn't know that because his focus was not on others. He had a goal and that goal was consuming him whole. The only person he cared about was his mother and she was a ghost, an idea that haunted him and pushed him forward. Not exactly a real person.

Which explains why I'm so, so glad when you say you like Hikari, Chiasa, Persephone or Ddraig. I spent a lot of time figuring them out and I must admit, I had planned to kill Hikari when I first thought about this story. Then the idea of a cute mom who cares about her child came upon me and that's how Hikari was born. Issei is not meant to be a tortured character who's tortured just because he is the main character. Plus, he is freaking 13 years old. He needs his family to have his back. Plus, I'm a sucker for happy endings (wink wink wink, this will have a happy ending, I swear. Probably. Maybe. I'll try.).

My favorite Ghibli movie is 'My Neighbor Totoro' followed closely by 'Princess Nausicaa'. It's a delight and a honor to hear my story looks a bit alike this masterpiece. I'm also a pretty big fan of Tolkien's saga, so I may have tried to copy some of his high fantasy settings. World building is a guilty pleasure of mine.

I answered some of your questions about the bow in this chapter, but I gave you more to mull about, I believe. Do not worry. Answers will come.

Next chapter is going to be the 20th. Which means it's going to be special. I never got so far in a story before, so I gotta make it special.

 **Does it mean we will see a main cast member next chapter?**

 **Yes.** I will let you guess who it is. There was a foreshadow in this chapter.

 **Is there a specific pairing for this story?**

Yes. My muse was adamant I do a slow burn romance and he won this battle a few days ago. Issei's sweet love will appear much, much later, but I'm sure you will quickly figure out who she is.

Clarification: my muse said "She is going to beautiful too!".

 **Will Issei be an aspiring florist?**

You're giving me evil ideas, dear readers. But no, he won't be. His mother, however... ;)

 **Where is the plot going?**

Towards a revolution. How and when it will happen, I shall keep to myself. Some pieces are already in place and you shall see them dance next chapter.

01/05/2020


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